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LETTERS, POEMS AND SELECTED 
PROSE WRITINGS 


OF 


DAVID GRAY. 


EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, 1836. BUFFALO, NEW YORK, 1888, 


EDITED, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR, BY J. N. LARNED. 


*% 


LIFE, LETTERS, POEMS, Etc. 


BUFFALO: 
THE COURIER COMPANY, PRINTERS. 


1888. 


peer) bo C.. 

A pxstRE for some collection of the writings of 
David Gray, and for some adequate account of his life, 
was expressed at the time of his death, last March, 
very generally in his own city and by many voices 
elsewhere. Several friends, who felt moved thereby, 
came together and formed what may rightly be called 
a self-constituted committee of publication. They 
were: The Hon. James O. Putnam, the Hon. Henry 
A. Richmond, Mr. James N. Johnston, Mr. John G. 
Milburn, Miss Annie R. Annan, and the present writer. 
In the editorship of the work, which the latter under- 
took at the request of his associates, he has had their 
help in many ways and their counsel throughout. 

The labor of collecting the scattered poems of 
Mr. Gray, from scrap-books and portfolios, from the 
files of newspapers and magazines, and from other 
places of obscure burial, was performed by Miss Annan 
and Mr. Johnston. The exertions of Mr. Johnston, 
Mrs. David Gray and Mr. John 8S. Gray brought 


together a rich mass of private correspondence, for the 


Iv PREFACE. 


use of the editor in preparing the biographical memoir. 
If the life of David Gray and the development of his 
mind and character are represented satisfactorily, it is 
by the self-delineation which his letters afford. Thanks 
are due to the friends who preserved them and who 
have permitted them to be used. } 

The editor must likewise acknowledge, very thank- 
fully, the great assistance he has had, in the proof- 
reading of the work, from Mr. Walter 8. Bigelow, 
who has contributed to it his time, his labor and his 
knowledge, without stint. The same labor has been 
shared by others. | 

There seems to be nothing to add to these just 
explanations. The work is offered, primarily, to those 
who knew David Gray and who loved him; and it 
needs no introduction to them. So far as it reaches 
others, it will speak best for itself. 


BUFFALO LIBRARY, December, 1888. 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. 1836-1849, 
BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 1849-1856, 

First YEARS IN BUFFALO. 1856-1859, 
APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 1859-1865, 
YEARS OF TRAVEL. 1865-1868, 

THE PRIME OF LIFE. 1868-1882, 

RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE, . 

LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 1882-1888, . 


ESTIMATES, 


POEMS. 


THE FoG-BELL AT NIGHT, 


Sir JOHN FRANKLIN AND His CREw, . 


THE CREW OF THE ADVANCE, 


To GLEN IRIs, 


OUTRIVALLED, 


THE LAKE, . 


ELIHU BuRRITT, . 


JEANNIE LORIMER, . 


COMING, . 


vl CONTENTS. 


PAGE, 
A Maron ScENB, . « . & #1. 48 See 5 
THE BARK OF LIFE, 227 
FROM THE GERMAN OF BODENSTEDT, 229 
On LEBANON, ... . 229 
A GOLDEN WEDDING POEM, 231 
THE SOUL’S FAILURE, . 282 
FROM THE GERMAN OF BODENSTEDT, 233 
DEDICATION IN A LADY’S ALBUM, 234 
To Miss CLARA LOUISE KELLOGG, 235 
MURILLO’S ‘ IMMACULATE CONCEPTION,’ . 235 
NEW YEAR GREETINGS, 236 
THE CROSS OF GOLD, ; 245 
TO. 3 247 
DIVIDED, . 247 
THE Last INDIAN COUNCIL ON THE GENESEE, 248 
COMMUNION, 250 
A FRAGMENT, . 252 
Sort FALLS THE GENTLEST OF THE HOURS, 254 


POEM READ AT THE CELEBRATION OF THE 'TWENTY-FIFTH 
ANNIVERSARY OF THE YOUNG MEN’s ASSOCIATION OF BUF- 
FALO, MarRcow 22, 1861, . «sf. 9 ee 

A NINETEENTH CENTURY SAINT, 

THE CHIMES, 

POEM READ AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE YOUNG MEN’S 
ASSOCIATION OF BUFFALO, FEBRUARY 17, 1862, 

POEM READ AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW LIBRARY BUILDING 
OF THE YOUNG MEN’s ASSOCIATION OF BUFFALO, JANUARY 
10, 18655" 65% 

How THE YOUNG COLONEL DIED, 


THE LAST OF THE KAH-KWABS, . 


266 


272 
277 
281 





CONTENTS. 


THE MINISTRY OF ART, 

HUSHED IS THE LONG ROLL’S ANGRY THREAT, 
THE TENTH MUSE, . 

Mary Lenox: A NEW YEAR'S ITEM IN VERSE, 
THANKSGIVING IN WAR-TIME, . 

THANKSGIVING Day, 


REST, . 


LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


ROBERT BURNS AND His POETRY, 
SCIENCE AND POETRY, 
NIAGARA FALLS BY WINTER MOONLIGHT, . 


THE GREAT STORM, 





DAVID GRAY. 


CHAPTER. LE. 
CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. 18386-1849. 


Davin Gray,—the David Gray of this memoir,— 
was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, on the 8th day of 
November, 1836.* His father, Philip Cadell Gray, 
was then a stationer in the Scottish capital, living and 
doing business in Broughton street, at No. 68. This 
is not far from the Zodlogical Gardens, in that part of 
Edinburgh called the New Town. Some eight years 
later, the stationer’s shop was given up, and the father 
made a new business venture, in the crockery trade, 
establishing it in Candlemaker Row ; while the family 
home was removed, first to Clerk street, in the old 
town, and then to No. 9 East Sciennes street, a little 
farther south. 

For three generations, at least, David’s family had 
lived in Edinburgh, or so near to it that they dwelt 
continually, as it were, within the shadow of its aeropo- 
lis and the atmosphere of its traditions. His grand- 
father, whose name he bore, had lived at the ancient 
village of Cramond, six miles west of the city. His 

* He was not akin in any known degree to the young poet of ‘The 


Luggie,’ David Gray, whose birth, near Glasgow, was two years later, 
and who died in 1861. 


2 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


ereat-erandfather—also David Gray by name—had 
been an Edinburgh tradesman, in the grocer line; 
while the father of the latter, described as ‘merchant, 
teacher, session-clerk and land-surveyor,’ passed his 
days in the near village of Currie, where he married a 
farmer’s daughter whose name was, likewise, Gray. 

David’s mother, Amelia Tasker, was the daughter 
of a farmer, who, during her childhood, removed from 
the neighborhood of Perth to a farm known as ‘ Maw- 
hill,’ a few miles west of Loch Leven, in Kinrosshire. 
This was her home until 1829, when she went to 
Edinburgh, to live with an uncle, Charles Alison,—a 
well-known builder, and a man conspicuous for noble 
qualities. Four years afterwards, she married Mr. 
Gray. 

The stock from which David Gray came was thus 
deep-rooted at the historic center of Scottish life; and 
deep-rooted, likewise, in the fine and refining simplici- 
ties and sincerities,—the thrift, the plainness, the hon- 
esty of personal and social habit,—which seem to con- 
dition life for the Scottish middle class in a nobler way 
than is known to any class among other English-speak- 
ing peoples of the world. Those who knew David Gray 
in after-life, and in a new land, could never fail to find 
in his character and in his genius a certain subtile, 
distinguishing flavor—aroma—tone,—how shall we de- 
fine it?—-which seemed unmistakably to be the quin- 
tessence of his Scottishness,—a final distillation from 
those naturalizing and wholesome influences which his 
ancestry, for generations, had absorbed. He was the 
product, in fact, of a kind of hereditary culture very 
different from the garden-tilth of conventional socie- 


I EE EEE E———————eor 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. 34 


ties, but like the slow soil-ripening of an old vineyard, 
which yields after some generations an incomparable 
wine. 

David’s school-education began early, but ended too 
soon, perhaps, for the best training of a mind like his. 
His first school was one kept by his ‘ Aunt Ann,’ in 
Buccleuch street, facing ‘the Meadows,’ and quite near 
to his home in Sciennes street. Among his school- 
fellows and playmates at that time was John Pettie, 
now a Royal Academician at London and one of the 
foremost British painters of the day. The artist-lad 
and the poet-lad were drawn together by a sure affinity, 
and the latter is said to have caught, for a time, the 
passion of his companion for the pencil, showing no 
little aptitude ; but it cannot have been the true bent 
of his mind. From the child-school in Buccleuch 
street he passed, soon, to what was known as ‘ Brown’s 
School, at No. 1 Nicholson Square—just a square 
south from the Edinburgh College, and a short dis- 
tance from the ‘Heart of Mid-Lothian.’ Finally, be- 
fore the family quitted Edinburgh, he was a pupil, 
for a couple of years, at Forester’s Newington Acad- 
emy, situated at the corner of Newington and Salis- 
bury Place, on the road from his home in Sciennes 
street to the Queen’s Park. He made a mark in 
both schools, by quickness of learning and _ brilliancy 
of power, which never lessened his faithfulness to 
study, but kept him always in advance of his ap- 
pointed work. He thirsted for every kind of knowl- 
edge and drank from every source that became open to 
him, his mind growing by what it fed on, with a healthy 
vigor. The fine, clear quality of his understanding 


EL ee: BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


was notable from those earliest days, and, for all that 
he knew and all that he felt, the inborn faculty of 
expression was ready-gifted to him. An essay on the 
then recondite subject of Electricity, which he wrote 
at that period, when scarcely eleven years old, owes its 
preservation to the fact that the principal of the New- 
ington school had it put into print, as a surprising 
production from a pupil so young. ‘Strange to say,’ 
writes one who read the piece not long ago, ‘it does 
not even mention the electric telegraph.’ 

But, while David at school was first in all forms and 
winner of all prizes, he was none the less a hearty 
school-boy, as eager for play as the rest,—as full of 
healthy animal life and a boy’s natural lust for sport 
and frolic. His brother, five years younger, writing 
his recollections of those days, says: 


David was as eager for sport as any boy could be, 
and, once outside the schoolroom, was continually at 
play. The Meadows and Links,—large parks near to 
our old house,—afforded ample room for the indulgence 
in games of ball known as ‘ goff,’ and in many running 
games which he was fond of. In marbles, he was the 
terror of the neighborhood. No boy could win from 
him, but, if reckless enough to undertake it, was almost 
sure to come off minus his stock in trade; so that 
David’s pockets were nearly always loaded with the 
plunder of the game. Indeed, the tendency to win 
might have taken possession of him, had not his con- 
scientious nature asserted itself very early in life... . 
Our Saturdays were spent in taking many long walks 
about Edinburgh, climbing Arthur’s Seat, wandering 
round Duddingston Loch, or making a pilgrimage to 
some of the suburban towns, so beautifully situated on 
all sides of the ‘ Modern Athens.’ He was the enthu- 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. 5 


siastic observer of every object in these youthful travels, 
and the love begotten in him for the old places con- 
tinued through life, as his letters of later years from 
there so plainly show. . . . 

Our home, on East Sciennes street, was within half a 
block of ‘the Meadows’ (a large open park and _play- 
ground) on one side, and five minutes walk, on the 
other, of Queen’s Park, in which are Salisbury Craigs 
and Arthur’s Seat. From our front windows, loomed 
up the Lion’s Head,—the crowning peak of Arthur’s 
Seat,—the veritable figure of a crouching lion. Up 
the side of Salisbury Craigs runs the ‘ Radical Road,’ 
made famous by Walter Scott. Such places for climb- 
ing and frolicking cannot be found so near any other 
city. On our way to the Queen’s Park we often passed 
the old house known as Jeannie Dean’s house. 


For a boy such as David Gray must have been, 
emotionally stringed like a musical instrument, and 
in tune with all the harmonies of the world, both sen- 
suous and spiritual, there could not well have been 
given a life more fitly and happily surrounded than 
that which he lived in Edinburgh. There were the 
stimulating activities of a great metropolis to play 
upon the intellectual side of him, and to produce for 
him, by their frictions, some tempering and quickening 
of faculty, which a country lad is apt to lack; and, yet, 
he had that gain of city life without the grievous losses 
that fall usually on town-bred boys. For Nature is 
not banished out of Edinburgh, nor made forlorn in 
captivity, there, as happens to her at most places where 
the human throng grows thick. She keeps her sover- 
eignty, and the city is subject to her. She tolerates it, 
—condescends to it,—smiles on it,—frowns on it,— 
dominates it,—from her Arthur’s Seat and her Castle 


6 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Rock. With Time and History for her architects, and 
with Romance for her colorist, she has made it a town 
to her liking, in the spirit and the image of herself,— 
the town of all towns in the world for the soul of a 
young poet to be nourished in. 

How David’s heart was held to Edinburgh through 
his after-life, by the always fresh memory of his short 
thirteen years of Scottish childhood and youth, appears 
in the letters which he wrote, on his first visit to the 
old home, returning from America in 1865,—sixteen 
years after the migration of the family and himself. 
They are the letters referred to by his brother in the 
notes which have been quoted above. Some passages 
from them will be read with more interest at this point 
in the story of the life of David Gray than if left to 
appear in their chronological place. Dating from 
Edinburgh, August 10, 1865, he wrote to his sister: 


It was on the afternoon of Saturday, the 29th ult., 
that our ‘somewhat long and meandering and very 
delightful journey through England, from London, ter- 
minated at the Tweed. I was on the lookout, of course, 
for the first glimpse of Scotland, and, in due time, I 
had it, through a truly national shower of rain. I got 
off at Berwick, just for the fun of the thing, and felt 
my feet tingle strangely. Round by the sea-coast we 
drove, and, soon, the names of the stations became oddly 
familiar. At last, Arthur’s Seat loomed up, unmis- 
takably, and a few minutes more landed us at Prince’s 
street, down-stairs, on a level with the gardens. O, 
but the old town looked glorious, at that first sight ! 
It did not seem changed in a single detail, but only 
gave me an impression of its having, at one or two 
points, shrunk in its proportions. 

We put up at the Royal Hotel, nearly opposite the 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. i 


Scott monument, and, as soon as I could go, we were 
off, up the Bridges for the South Side. South Bridge 
and Nicholson street were the same, except that ‘ Hutton’ 
stood for ‘ Brown’ on the Square Academy. I saw old 
‘Hooky Walker’s grocery sign, ‘Pie Davy’, even, 
survived, and half-a-dozen other old names met me 
from the shop doors. St. Patrick’s square, Gifford 
Park, Clerk street,—all unchanged. I easily identified 
our stair, and saw the name ‘ Benton,’ which, I think, 
belonged to the vicinity of old. Along Clerk street, 
toward Preston, there is a deal of new building. I 
looked over and saw that more than half of father’s 
old garden-ground is built upon; but our corner still 
holds its ancient green, . . . and No. 9 East Sciennes 
street, barring a little added out-at-elbows look, is just 
as ever. Imagine my feelings, as I walked along the 
old street and turned into Bertram’s yard, to see a lot 
of youngsters playing, one of whom at the moment 
proclaimed ‘a scatter o’ papes.’ 


Then he tells of a visit made to old family friends, 
where he found a warm welcome, and from the pleasant 
story of it goes on: 


After tea, the three young folks of us took a long 
daunder over the old ground. We went to No. 9, and 
Be the stair, and rang the bell of the old house. It is 
> who shines on the door-plate and the 
bell, formerly P. C. Gray’s; but he didn’t happen to 
be in,—so I only saw the door. I looked over the 
stair-windows, however, and saw the back green, which 
smells of clipshears and clockers, as of yore. Then 
we walked round by the Sciennes, past Eden Cottage, 
and away by Lover’s Loan to the Grange. The place 
is terribly built up, and only at points here and there, 
with L ’s help, could I recognize it. We went 
round by the cemetery, too, and past Sir Thomas 











8 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Dick Lauder’s, and almost to Pow Burn, in that 
direction. Returning, we passed the old convent, 
with its carved rope of stone over the door, near 
Morning Side, and came down through the Links to 
the Meadows. There are great changes all about that - 
locality, now; but we easily identified the trees behind 
which we often had played ‘Hospy’ and ‘Tig.’ All 
the way, as we walked, old memories came thronging 


ILpoceas 


In the same letter he gave a charming account of a 
visit which is explained by the following remark in his 
brother’s notes: ‘Our school vacations were spent at 
our cousins’ in Kinrosshire, across the Firth of Forth, 
and the delightful theme of J/iddleton was one often 
recurred to among us when we met in after-life.’ It 
was to that ‘Middleton’ of his summer play-days, in 
boyhood, and to the aunt and cousins there, that the 
following,—written to his sister,—refers : 


Only yesterday afternoon, I went down to Granton, 
loitered on the pier, awhile, with the wind blowing salt 
about me and savoring of tangle and buckies, and took 
the boat thence for Burntisland. Although it was 
half after five Pp. Mm. when I landed, I chose to eschew 
the railway. I easily found my way up to the top of 
the Kilaly Braes, where I stood, full of queer emotions, 
and with you and mother uppermost in my mind. The 
road has been changed somewhat; so, except at Moss 
Mevin and Cowdenbeath, I could not, with all my 
trying, recover my old impression of it. Two hours of 
brisk walking, however, brought me full in front of 
Benarty, and then, of course, I was at home. I passed 
the Blair Adam postoffice, and there was the Lodge 
and the Lodge-gate,—all unchanged, except that Ben- 
arty seemed to have moved close down to the back of 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. 9 


the postoffice buildings. O, it was a strange thing 
for me to turn my feet up that sweet little road, that 
I had trodden, last, nigh twenty years before! I fol- 
lowed the hedge up, close, and, soon, there was Mary- 
borough glistening through the trees, and the old thorn 
standing sentry at the turn, as of yore. Then I stood 
on the little bridge and looked sair at the dell it 
crosses, which used to seem so deep and shady. A few 
steps more and I touched the big gate at Middleton, 
and peered curiously in, at a score of objects dear and 
familiar. I passed to the little gate and entered,—all 
was as it used to be. I went up, before going to the 
door, and examined the places where our gardens used 
to be, and saw that the bushes and the walks and the 
porch and the dial,—all—all were there, as if I had 
only been dreaming a score of years and had waked 
up among them, a little child again. I rapped at the 
front door, but nobody heard me; so I stole through 
the little gate to the back of the house, and rapped 
there. A little fatter than of old, but rosy-cheeked, 
hale, and not much older-looking than I remembered 
her, the dear old body met me at the door of the 
kitchen. I couldn’t say much, but kind o’ mumbled 
out ‘didn’t she know me?’ and ‘ would n’t she let me 
kiss her?’ ‘Na, na,—I’m no’ ane o’ the kissin’ kind. 
Wha are ye? * Tell me wha ye are, before ye come in 
here ?’—something like this greeting I got; but I 
crowded past: her, and in to the fireside; for I heard a 
voice that was very familiar, thereabout. ‘ Let me see 
him,’ said Teenie. She was sitting at her tea, dressed 
in deep black, when I kissed her and vacantly asked 
if she did n’t know me. For about a minute she looked 
at me, with a very hunger of eagerness in her eyes, 
and then, starting up, she cried: ‘It’s David Gray!’ 
So Teenie knew me,—the only living being in Europe 
who has, or will. How she did so is a mystery to me,— 
for I was as unexpected as the Sultan of Turkey... . 


10 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Before closing the long letter from which these bits 
are taken, he broke into a kind of exclamation that was 
not usual in his writing: 


Scotland! Ah, how beautiful she is! How my pen 
would run on if I should begin to speak her praise! 
Strange,—is n’t it ?—from the day I set foot on her 
soil, my tongue has lapsed into its olden forms of 
speech, and I am scarcely distinguishable from the 
braidest of the talkers I meet. ‘ You’renoa Yankee, 
ony wa,’ is the constant exclamation. 


In a later letter, written from London, he finished 
the tale of his stay at Edinburgh and his report of 
familiar places and people; then he tells of his final 
visit to the dear Middleton, and of a long walk which 
he took, with a couple of bright lads, his cousin’s chil- 
dren, ‘away up the burn through the glen’: 


As I sauntered along the ancient foot-paths, and 
looked and listened, I could not but think that these 
old plantin’s still hold, in their hushed and shadowy 
hearts, some sort of sympathy for us who loved them 
so well;—some sort of dim consciousness that they are 
dear with the memory of days that can be but once in 
life. It was very queer to me to be walking there, 
with my old and unrestful heart, while my companions 
bounded along with me, now picking a flower, now 
catching a butterfly, and full of just the same exultant, 
joyous sense of youth which used to fillme. Alas! I 
cannot say it made me feel young again. 


When this was written, sixteen years had slipped 
between David and his Edinburgh childhood, and they 
had been years very full of changes and experiences 
for him. He had been transplanted, in the most literal 


CHILDHOOD AT EDINBURGH. TE 


sense, from an old world to a new world. The con- 
trast between the two could not possibly have been 
made greater than it was; and the effects, on a spirit 
like his, of the shock of his readjustment, were pro- 
founder, perhaps, than he ever measured in his own 
thought. 

At thirteen, he had welcomed the project of removal 
by his family to America with extravagant delight. 
His imagination had been set aflame by the idea of a 
life in the western wilderness, with all the possibilities 
of adventure that it seemed to hold in store. He was 
too full of happy visions, as his brother relates, to be 
saddened much, even when the time that was sore to- 
his elders came, for parting with old scenes and friends. 
And, so, he turned his young face, in a fever of glad- 
ness, away from the venerable country of his birth, and 
voyaged westward, with as much eagerness for discov- 
ery as Columbus, and going quite as much as he into 
the shadowy unknown. His brother, whose recollec- 
tions supply most of the materials for this earlier nar- 
rative, has written the following brief account of the. 
family migration : 


Early one morning in April, 1849, our party of 
something over a score was surrounded by several 
scores of old friends, gathered at the station to see us. 
off ; and the hurrahs for America were heartily joined 
in by David, as our train pulled out and sped away 
towards Liverpool. It was April 9th when we boarded 
the sailing-vessel Constitution at her wharf in the 
Mersey. Our first night was one never to be forgotten. 
The bunks were filled with every imaginable article 
needed for a sea-voyage, and scarcely room enough 
was left for us to huddle together. Sleep was impos- 


12 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


sible, and even David’s ardor was dampened that mem- 
orable night; but, once out on the broad Atlantic, all 
his love of the sea, so often manifested in after-life, 
kept him in continual delight. 

Twenty-one days brought us to New York; so that 
on the 1st of May we were driving up Broadway to the 
residence of relatives on Murray Hill,—at that time a 
country suburb of New York. We sojourned a week 
in New York, and then came the trip up the Hudson 
by steamer to Troy, thence by rail to Buffalo. 7 


CHOY reh Ri DL: 
BoyHoop In Wisconsin. 1849-1856. 


AT Buffalo, the family were welcomed and enter-. 
tained by relatives who had preceded them from Scot- 
land, arid there was much endeavor to persuade them to. 
go no farther into the west. The inducements seemed 
strong, but they did not prevail. David was among 
the loudest in protestation against a thought of draw- 
ing back from the original intent. It was the pioneer 
life of the Far West,—the Great West—the Wild 
West,—that he had set his heart upon living, and 
nothing less could satisfy him. How much his eager 
wishes had to do with the carrying of the decision, we 
cannot tell; but it was decided, in the end, as he urged, 
and the family journey was resumed. They took pas- 
sage, May 22, on the screw-propeller St. Joseph, and 
were landed five days later at Sheboygan, Wisconsin.. 
David was the historian of the voyage, and there is. 
still preserved a letter which he wrote to his uncle, on 
the 29th, chronicling its few incidents. The hand- 
writing of the letter is like a piece of copper-plate 
engraving, for neatness and elegant regularity. 

According to Mr. John S. Gray’s account, the state. 
in which the party was dropped on the shores of Wis- 
consin had no encouraging aspect. He writes: 


We were landed at Sheboygan, Wis., one dreary, 
rainy night. Why we did not all throw ourselves into, 


14 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


the lake, as we were left in sorry plight on that long 
wharf, may have been largely due to David’s hopeful 
disposition. Scarcely a place could be found in the 
miserable town for protection; but we did find rooms, 
while father and Walter Sanderson (our large party 
from Edinburgh scattered at New York) went through 
the woods to Waupun to seek a farm. It was during 
our week’s sojourn there that we first saw the lovely 
wild-flowers of the west, and David’s admiration of 
them was unbounded. 

Three days teaming was required to take us to 
Waupun, a distance of only sixty miles. A short dis- 
tance out, we met a man of whom we inquired if it 
was very muddy on the road to Waupun. He replied 
that there was only one mud-hole, but that extended 
all the way,—and so we found it. David, trying once 
to walk, sank into the mud so deep that a friendly 
woodsman’s aid was needed to pull him out. Our 
‘second night was spent at Fond du lac, then a 
miserable collection of log-huts and a long, low building 
of a hotel. It was near there that we got our first view 
of the prairie, covered with spring flowers. 


Several years afterwards, David began’ on one 
occasion to write his recollections of that epoch, and of 
the impression which the western wilderness made on 
_his feelings at the first sight. He seems to have 
planned a series of ‘ Chapters from a Boy’s Diary ’,— 
which would now be an invaluable piece of autobiogra- 
phy to possess. But nothing that fulfills the design has 
been found, except a few introductory sentences, which 
it will be proper to quote in this place: ‘I come to 
the true beginning of these chapters,’ he wrote, ‘on a 
cold, dull morning in April,* which broke very dully 
and slowly, some ten years ago, over a prairie in. Wis- 


* It must have been early June, according to the dates given above. 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 15 


consin. In the person of a small twelve-year-old boy, I 
looked over that prairie, early that morning, in no very 
exuberant state of mind. ‘The belt of trees, the brook 
and the farm-house where I had spent the night, 
appeared to be, as indeed they were, the outskirts of 
life and civilization. Far to the westward, nothing was 
visible but the waving line of prairie-horizon, as smooth 
and unbroken as the ocean, which, if geologists say 
truly, once rolled there, and which has left for all 
time a likeness of itself, as nearly as one could be 
made from solid earth.’ There his pen paused, in the 
middle of a sheet of paper, which came to light, among 
other scraps and fragments, thirty years later, after his 
death. 

The notes furnished by David’s brother continue, as 
follows : 


Our farm was two miles from Waupun village. 
There we spent the summer; but we were not pleased 
with it, and a move to a new farm was proposed. 
The fall was dry, and soon we had our first fight with 
prairie fires. One eventful Sunday morning, when 
ready to shut up the house and go to the village, to 
church, the approaching fiend was seen. All hands 
able to fight fire turned out. I was left by the well, to 
keep the cattle from drinking the water that had been 
drawn for the putting out of the fire. The others 
went out as far as possible, to keep it from getting to 
our hay-stacks and buildings. They were, at first, 
unable to check the fire, and they came running 
towards the house, crying that all was lost ;—but a 
foot-path near our buildings made a second place of 
defense, and there, much owing to David’s courage and 
hard labor, the flames were subdued. What a weary, 
begrimed-looking family we were, after that fight ! 


16 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


The winter of 1849-50 was spent by the family in 
Kingston, a little town 20 miles to the west of Wau- 
pun; but David and Walter Sanderson (afterwards our 
brother-in-law) were left on the old farm to care for 
the stock, our feed being there. Their experience that 
winter in keeping bachelor’s hall has furnished many 
an amusing anecdote. It was then, as he has often 
told us, that he succeeded in cooking something that not 
even the dogs or pigs would eat. But the novelty of 
the situation kept it from being too tiresome. Besides, 
a few miles distant, a Scotch family named Lindsay 
lived, and the boys from there often came to enliven 
the time, while David went as often to stay with them 
for a day or two. So, the winter was not without 
much jollity and enjoyment. 

With early spring, came the time for driving the 
stock to the new farm, which had been purchased from 
the government, on the banks of the Fox River and 30 
miles west. It took David and Walter three days to 
drive the short distance. The family was now reunited, 
on this new farm, in an unsettled neighborhood, far 
from civilization, and its log-house was the best pro- 
tection we had for several years. Indians were, at 
first, our only neighbors, and David’s love for them 
was not increased by acquaintance. JI remember that. 
a large encampment of them was established, once, on 
the bank of the river, only a few hundred yards from 
our house. One night, after all was quiet, David and 
I stole quietly down to their wigwams and picked our 
way amongst many sleeping natives. Their mode of 
living, as seen at that time, was certainly not what 
inspired ‘The Last Council.’ They were a thieving 
set, and we often had articles taken by them. On one 
occasion, David went on horseback to the little villagé 
of Packwaukee. He had to tie his horse at the end of 
the corduroy bridge which spanned the river, and walk 
across to the town. When he came back, he found his 
horse gone; but he saw the tracks of the animal and 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. ie 


followed them, and came on a party of red-skins 
deliberately leading his horse away. Quick as a flash 
he snatched the bridle, mounted, and was off at full 
speed, before they realized what he was doing. In 
those days he was quick and nimble in his movements. 

The work of clearing the farm began, now, in 
earnest; and David, from that time, never did less than 
a man’s work, cutting down trees, splitting rails, lay- 
ing fence, or breaking up the wild land. 

Although there was all a sportsman could ask for in 
the way of game, David was never a success in that 
role. Not long after our first coming to the Fox 
River, he and I went out on it and paddled our way 
into a bayou, overgrown with weeds and bottomless in 
its depth of mud. Ducks were packed in on all sides 
of us, and David stood up in the boat to give a broad- 
side amongst them. The gun had been heavily loaded 
for several days, and the rebound sent him, head over 
heels, down amongst the slimy weeds. He had not 
learned to swim at that time, and, even if he had, it 
would have made him no better off ; for the weeds kept 
him from helping himself. It was with difficulty that 
I got hold of him and helped him into the boat, and, 
for a time, the chances for both of us seemed strongly 
in favor of the ending of our careers there and then. 
A pair of badly frightened boys, in a boat half filled 
with water, and minus our gun,—we did not stop to 
see how many ducks had suffered, but made our way 
to shore as best we could. 

Our winters were employed in clearing new fields 
for cultivation, and, for three years, David had no 
chance to attend school. It was not till the winter of 
1853-4, when we had sufficient land under cultivation, 
that he was able to advance his education, so long 
neglected, by going back to Waupun to attend the 
High School. He was joined by several of our old 
friends, the Lindsays. They took rooms in an old 
store, belonging to father, and how they got on may be 


Z 


18 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


judged from their first day’s experience. On setting 
up their stove, they put the pipe through an opening in 
the ceiling, and thought very little of what was to 
become of the smoke, but started their fire without 
solving that question. For a minute or two, the fire 
went well enough; then, suddenly, the smoke began to 
pour out of every opening in volumes. They cast lots 
to see who should investigate the cause of this trouble, 
and it fell to David. Going up-stairs, he found they 
had run the pipe into the room of another tenant, who 
had quietly covered over the end with a plate. The 
boys had many adventures that winter and were very 
happy together; but their time was well spent in 
earnest study. 

At the end of this term of school in Waupun, 
David, with one of his companions, returned to his 
home at Roslin, on foot, doing what he called ‘a valiant 
trudge,’ in which ‘we had a chance’ (he wrote a few 
days after) ‘to become intimately acquainted with our 
bundles; for my part I felt, for a long time, as if some 
vast responsibility had been sustained by my shoulders.’ 
This was said in a letter dated April 8, 1854, which 
was the first of a long correspondence that he carried 
on with one of the Lindsays above mentioned, who had 
been his school-mates and room-mates at Waupun. 
The friend to whom he wrote, now a prominent busi- 
ness man at Milwaukee, has preserved all these letters 
with affectionate care, and they are the earliest which 
have been found for use in the preparation of this 
memoir. ‘Iam now,’ continued David, ‘ fairly into the 
working system, again. Occasionally, I take a lazy fit, 
and sigh for the happy days we spent in the old room. 
. . . Alas! I am afraid neither you nor I will see such 
a good time again in a hurry.’ That he did not drop 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 19 


his studies when he came home, even though the work 
of the farm was hard, appears in this: ‘I am now 
studying algebra in all my leisure time (which is not 
very much). I have got as far on as the binomial 
theorem (which see), and find it very interesting. I 
am determined, if I can make it out, to prosecute my 
studies and amass something like a respectable edu- 
eation. What is the use of spending our lives in this 
world without having our minds ever lifted above the 
muck or sand which we cultivate? To be sure, there 
is little leisure time, but it will increase; the winter, 
at least, with some calculating, can be ours, and, certes, 
there’s good long ones in this country.’ 

Some months later, writing again to the same friend, 
he said: ‘I think I will be better able to push my 
studies this winter; at least 1 am anxious to do so. 
I think of adding land-surveying, geometry, and, per- 
haps, Greek grammar. I ani sure you will not fail to 
make great advancement this winter under J ’s 
tuition. I would advise you to devote considerable 
attention to English composition, than which there is 
nothing more essential and available for the cultivation 
and refinement of the mind.’ 

At about this period, some time in the year 1854, 
David formed an acquaintance which proved to be one 
of the important occurrences of his life. His brother 
tells of the beginning of it, in this wise: 





Our neighborhood had now become well settled, and, 
in one of the new families, not far from us, was a 
young man of David’s age, whose name was also David, 
—David Taylor. During the summer of 1854, or 
about that time, they began to find in one another a 


20 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


common sentiment which drew them together. This 
was a wakening love of literature. They were together 
as constantly and as often as if they had been the most 
ardent lovers,—closeted in their rooms beyond mid- 
night,—and no one was admitted to the secrets of their 
conclave. This devotion to each other was continued 
till David went, in August, 1856, to Buffalo. Not long 
since, talking with Mr. John Muir,—who was then a 
neighbor, and who is now the well-known naturalist of 
California,—he said that he remembered working, one 
day, on the roads—as was the custom in those days— 
with the two Davids, and their conversation filled him 
with envious delight. They had been reading some of 
Dickens’ works, and their comments on the characters 
were such as he had never heard before. Their talk 
gave him the first spurring to read and learn from 
books that he had ever had. 

David’s knowledge of books and authors had been 
greatly extended by constant association with Walter 
Sanderson, who was a walking encyclopedia on these 
matters ; and, now, the poetical part of his nature was 
stirred by contact with David Taylor. We found 
ways and means, sometimes, to discover what was going 
on behind the locked door. Often, the one was reading 
to the other an attempt at verse. It took a long time 
for them to muster up courage enough to send a poem 
from each to Graham’s Magazine, and then with what 
disgust did they find an acknowledgment of ‘ two pretty 
poems’! The word ‘pretty’ was an offense beyond 
forgiveness. 


It was a rare, strange fortune—if we dare name it 
so—which brought these two lads, David Gray and 
David Taylor, out of different parts of Scotland, across 
the ocean, into one lonely neighborhood of that sparsely 
peopled region of the earth where they found them- 
selves together. They seem to have fitted one another 





BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. yank 


as if it had been in the decree of their lives that they 
should meet. ‘There were obviously great differences 
of character between them, but only such as piqued 
and stimulated their strong affinities of feeling. They 
were alike in poetical temperament, and so equally 
sensitive to the intoxicants of the imagination that they 
found a common ideal world, into which they were 
rapt, and where they lived together, feeling themselves 
mostly apart from other men. The result was a kind 
of twinship, closer than friendship, which is sometimes 
seen in the world, but not very often. David Taylor 
appears to have been, in some respects, the more stren- 
uous spirit of the two, and the poetic fire had been 
kindled in him at an earlier time. The inflammable 
imagination of David Gray, which flashed at the con- 
tact with this fiery soul, had scarcely discovered itself 
before. He, always, in after-life, spoke with a kind of 
awe of the wonderful awakening in him which occurred 
through his intercourse with David Taylor, and never 
stinted his acknowledgment of the debt he was under 
to the latter, for influences that lasted as long as his 
life. That the influences of that singular and pas- 
sionate communion were not altogether healthful, in- 
tellectually, but that they tended toward a certain 
fantastic exaltation of mind, looks probable, and it 
may be well that the intercourse of the two friends was 
interrupted ; but, for so long a time as it continued, 
one cannot doubt its great importance to the develop- 
ment of the genius of David Gray. 

David Taylor, who has never quitted the scenes of 
his companionship with the former, still cherishes the 
memory of it, with a fondness which time does not wear 


A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


out, and has told some interesting incidents of it in 
recent letters.to a common friend. Gray had often 
spoken, in later life, of a memorable day in the field, 
when the two Davids, sitting together at the plowman’s 
dinner which they brought with them, read something 
in the scrap of newspaper that wrapped it,—something 
by Gerald Massey, or about him (those who remem- 
bered the story were not distinct in their recollection 
of this point)—which stirred them very deeply and 
marked a notable date in their experience. It is in 
allusion to this that David eee writes the opening 
passages of the following: 


I remember the circumstance, for I was the com- 
panion. Gray brought his dinner in that paper; but it 
was the spinning of Massey nigh to death, in the silk- 
mill, that was talked about. Gray was very indignant 
about his usage, and so was I. Some of his lines may 
have been read,—I do not remember; but I do remem- 
ber repeating better poetry,—which was the pretty 
stanza of Moore, beginning with—‘ Let Fate do her 
worst, there are moments of joy,’ and ending with— 
‘But the scent of the roses will hang round it still,’ 
together with other scraps I had upon my memory. 
Gray was greatly taken with the matter and the man- 
ner, and, from that day forth, we were bound together 
like a team of wild horses which no impediment or 
barrier could stop. 

Byron was my poet in those days. I had read Lara, 
but I had not the book. After a great deal of manceu- 
vering, for there was scarcity of capital, I bought 
Byron complete for a dollar and a half. Then, the 
opening lines of Z’he Bride of Abydos, and the grand 
cadences scattered through The Corsair, ete., had to 
take it. Then Gray got Moore—a splendid book; but, 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. yey 


as I had told the bookseller to send for it, on that 
ground I claimed it. I have both the books, yet. 

We lived little more than a mile apart, and visited 
one another in the night. Had that mile been water, 
and that water the Hellespont, I have no doubt it 
would have been crossed, or a brand-new tragedy given 
to history. At our meetings, we passed through won- 
derful states of excitement, which I can hardly under- 
stand at the present day. Gray complained, once, that 
my eyes frightened him; fire from them, he said, being 
actually seen. The light in his own eyes, no doubt, 
contributed to the illusion. Every night that we met, 
our pockets, of course, contained original compositions 
in prose and verse, to be commented upon, approved or 
condemned. Poe, I remember, was a great gain. We 
ran across The Faven in a magazine. We had never 
seen nor heard of Poe, before; but all earthly cares 
were set aside till the three volumes of his poems and 
tales were got. 

Of all our lucubrations I can remember little. One 
couplet of his struck me very forcibly. It was before 
a battle, fought at night, both sides for the most part 
invisible. The enemy’s bugles are heard, challenging, 
but faintly and from afar, and 


Then shrieking echoes throng the glen, 
For ours are answering back again— 


prelude to the onset. The whole yet lingers in my 
mind like a picture of Rembrandt’s. 

Night after night we had it,—not in succession, but 
at uncertain intervals; each giving the other always 
the old-country ‘convoy, —that is, going nearly home 
with him. One night, I remember, we were greatly 
delighted with the northern lights,—a most unusual 
display,—but, as we remarked, more to the east than 
was common; and, indeed, they were,—for before I 
got home it was broad day. 

Before he left for Buffalo I thought it a pity he 


24 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


should go unprovided; so I bought another Byron for 
him (Gray did not like Byron very well; his private 
character being in the way), and, in return, he gave 
me Coleridge. .. . 

He had the one quality that might be blazoned on 
all the ensigns of his nation, as their own transcendent, 
embodied word—courage ; although that was not his 
own opinion, either, and he used to complain to me of 
his lack of it. I remember distinctly of his writing 
to me of the great fear that possessed him on the train, 
when he first went to Buffalo. 


In a subsequent letter, David Taylor tells more sig- 
nificantly the story of the purchase of Moore’s poems, 
which he had mentioned above: 


' That time he got ‘ Moore,’ I remember, he came over 
with it, not caring to keep it, seeing I had a sort of 
claim on it, although he had really bought the book. 
I recollect he had his good clothes on. Now, neither 
of us cared a pin for what we wore, and why he was, 
in a manner, dressed on that occasion, I know not; but 
I noticed it in the middle of the excitement. After 
mentioning the way he had got the book, and signifying 
his wish to keep it, if I was so minded, he undid it 
from its wrappings and gently handed the splendid 
volume over tome. I seized it, greedily, ran rapidly 
through the engravings,—paused at one, in which the 
view was carried to the sea-line: ‘The light above the 
ocean,’ I cried ;—‘ see the light along the far horizon! 
Isn’t that beautifully done?’ Selfishness got the bet- 
ter of me; the book must be mine. Gray, a little 
sorrowful at seeing me thus giving way to temptation, 
and doing by him what he would not have done to me, 
was pleased, too, on the whole, turning his face toward 
me, patiently bearing with me and forgiving me. The 
memory of that transaction haunts me, ever since I 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 25 


have recalled it. It is all in Gray’s favor; but, at the 
same time, not altogether against me,—seeing he could 
borrow the book as long and as often as he pleased. 


The following is related in still another letter by 
the same writer : 


One day I found him rather quiet and thoughtful, 
and expected something of moment; for whoever is 
quiet and thoughtful has generally something to make 
him so. I was not disappointed when he began, very 
softly, by asking me if my folks ever bothered me 
about the poetry business and our carryings-on. I said, 
no, they never did; that they rather inclined to curtail 
the storing-in of so many books, all of the same kind, 
it was true,—but, continued I, ‘they have found out 
that that’s no go.’ 

‘Well,’ said he, ‘you are well off’; and proceeded 
to inform me of what he had to undergo with his 
papers,—his sister generally pilfering and irreverently 
reading and deriding our ‘best efforts.’ ‘ But,’ said 
he, ‘I have put a stop to it; I have been to Portage, 
and—look here!’ He then showed me a large leather 
folio, with a little lock and key attached. ‘I can put 
our things in there, now,’ said he, ‘and lock them up.’ 
‘ How much did you give for it?’ said I. ‘Ten wretched 
shillings.’ ‘Oh!’ said I,—‘ Campbell might have been 
got for that.’ ‘Well, but what could I do?’ ‘You 
could have made a box,’ said I, ‘and I have a little 
brass padlock,—just the thing.’ ‘ Well, well,’ said he, 
‘it’s done, now, and we are safe, anyway.’ But, alas, it 
appeared that the safety proved as fanciful as our 
wares; for his sister informed me, long afterwards, 
that, by squeezing in the edges of the ‘folio, it opened 
at the ends, where the female hand could be deftly 
introduced and the whole precious documents of Apollo 
taken out and read without difficulty. 


26 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Returning now to the notes furnished by Mr. John. 
S. Gray, we take up the thread of David’s life on the 
Wisconsin farm, as it is traced in them: 


One of the duties of backwoods life was going to 
mill, and, for several years, our nearest grist-mill was. 
Kingston, eighteen miles away. An early start in the 
morning was necessary, and David was the one often 
chosen to go on the long, lonely drive. The return 
home was delayed by waiting for the grist, and it was 
always far into the night before we would hear the 
welcome sound of his return. The drive was a lonely 
one, but David had always so much ‘communing with 
nature’ to do that he never seemed to mind it. It was 
in the summer of 1854 that, coming home very late 
one night from Kingston, he was caught in a terrific 
storm. The lightning flashed continuously, and the 
thunder kept up a deafening cannonade, while wind 
and lightning together tore up trees in the woods, as he 
passed along; but, beyond the wetting, he enjoyed it 
all, and gave a most graphic description of it, many 
years after. 

Early in the summer of 1854 we began to build our 
new farm-house on the hill. A raftsman, taking his 
lumber up the Fox River, was induced to make an 
exchange of lumber for a gold watch and some money ; 
so that the materials were landed at our door. David 
was helping to excavate for the cellar, one day, when 
he struck what had the appearance of a round, smooth 
stone, but which proved to be an Indian’s skull; and, 
soon, the whole skeleton, with Indian ornaments, was 
exhumed. Some of the latter were given to a museum 
in Portage City, and the former was laid in another 
resting-place. 

We remember that fourth of July well, when we all 
went to a grand celebration at Packwaukee. A band 
was advertised to furnish music. There were to be 
volunteer toasts and mimute-guns, and a free dinner to 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 1. 


all. David was greatly amused at the band, which was. 
composed of two drums and one fife. The minute- 
guns were fired from a blacksmith’s anvil. 

Through all our years on the farm, the Vew York 
Tribune was a constant visitor. When Uncle Tom’s 
Cabin was published, the two were enough to work us 
up to fever-heat on the subject of slavery, and largely 
to that is due the fact that David became a radical 
abolitionist. The fall of 1854 was a time of great. 
importance, for it was then we moved into our new 
house. 


In the autumn of 1854, David had planned going to: 
Portage, for a term at the academy, there, and was 
hopeful of securing, again, the companionship of his 
friend Lindsay, who had been one of his mates at 
Waupun the previous winter; but circumstances caused 
a change of plan, and he became school-teacher instead 
of pupil. Ina letter to Lindsay the following January 
he wrote: 


You will be rather astonished when I tell you that 
I have, instead of going to Portage, as I talked of, 
taken upon myself the duties and responsibilities of 
dominie in veritas. I got a pretty good chance, there 
being a small school and easy duties, with $15.50 per 
month; and, as we were none too plentifully supplied 
with the sinews of war, I concluded it was best to take 
it. I get on first-rate, have no difficulty at all, and 
consequently like it pretty well. I have taught just. 
half of my term (three months), and have not wearied, 
searcely. The location is about ten miles north of 
Roslin, near Montello, and on the banks of that classic: 
stream, the Fox. Isabella [his sister] is also teaching, 
about four miles from here, on the same road; she gets 
ten dollars per month and board at one place, close to 


~ 


28 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


the school-house. So, you see, there is quite a learned 
circle of dominies assembled at Roslin every week. 


Another passage found in this letter seems to indi- 
cate that there were thoughts, that winter, in the family 
_ at Roslin, of a fresh migration, Kansas-wards. 


The public mind [of Roslin] appears, with regard 
to the subject of emigration, to have a hankering a 
little farther south, instead of north, as Minnesota is. 
From comparing the temperature with that of Green 
Bay, the winters average four degrees colder at Fort 
Snelling, and a corresponding shortness of summer 
season is observable, also. So, I think, if we take a 
trip this fall, we should try it somewhere in the Kansas 
direction. 


But, however much it may have been talked of, the 
projected reconnoissance beyond the Mississippi was 
never undertaken. Another spring and summer found 
David hard-bound to farm-work, deeply interested in 
the ravages of the potato disease and quoting the 
prices of potatoes and oats in letters to his friends. 
At the same time, he was making diligent use of all 
his scant leisure hours in reading and study, and was 
preparing, more determinedly than before, for a term 
in the fall at the Portage academy. Towards the end 
of October, that year, he wrote to his friend Lindsay 
that he hoped to be able to go in about a month, and 
expected ‘to get board for two dollars per week.’ Again, 
striving to persuade his former school-chum to go with 
him, he adds: ‘I think we could do better for our- 
selves than we did at Waupun. We might take 
monastic vows for the winter, and eschew wrestling 
and evening parties, which things are a snare.’ 


eee 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 29) 


This time, the ambitious hope was realized, and 
David entered the school in Portage (Brittain’s School,, 
his brother calls it); but it can have been for a few 
weeks, only. He left it, even before the end of Decem- 
ber, to engage once more in teaching, ‘tempted,’ as he 
writes, ‘by lust of gold,’ to earn twenty dollars per 
month for three months. He had greatly enjoyed his. 
little taste of student-life at Portage, as he wrote to. 
Lindsay, who had failed to accompany him: 


There was a number of good scholars, evidently 
bent on improvement, and I had a most excellent, 
boarding-place; so that, if there was less of ‘game 
a-foot,’ there certainly was a proportionally less degree. 
of rowdyism than at Waupun, during our ever-to-be- 
remembered, never-to-be-forgotten campaign of 1854. 
The young men have a lyceum, at which your humble 
servitor, of course, cut a figure; and the scholars make: 
up a paper regularly, the editorial chair of which, 
during a fleeting season, was occupied by the afore- 
mentioned servitor. Besides my old studies, of alge- 
bra, etc., I have commenced geometry, and—and— 
Latin and Greek, to what end deponent saith not—yet.. 
By the by, I have two ‘right smart’ scholars in algebra. 
and geometry ; so I have some encouragement to study,, 
just now, to keep ahead of them. 


_ This letter was written January 20, 1856, and he: 
had then been, he says, teaching for a month, with two. 
months more of his engagement to fill. ‘I get along 
very easily,’ he adds; ‘have fifteen scholars, and board 
at one place,—which circumstances, combined, tend 
greatly to the amelioration of my social state.’ His. 
school was four miles east from his home at Roslin. 
There is nothing in his letters at this period—the. 


30 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


few which have been found—to show that David was 
depressed in spirits or lacked ambition in his work; 
but his brother states that some disheartening had 
happened to him. During the summer of 1855, his 
uncle William, from Buffalo,—an uncle much loved and 
admired by David, always,—had visited the household 
at Roslin, and the visit had been a great delight. It 
was the wish of this uncle that David should quit the 
farm and quit the west, to try his fortunes at Buffalo. 
The idea of such a change in his scheme of life, being 
once lodged in his mind, produced an inevitable unrest. 
As his brother writes : 


Hard labor had begun to tell on him. The enthu- 
siasm of the first years was giving way to a sober con- 
viction that nothing but a life of toil could be looked 
for on the farm, and, instead of the once happy boy, 
he was sadly silent and abstracted, nearly all the time. 
The exception was when the two Davids got together, 
to consult on literary subjects, and that was as often as 
circumstances would permit. Their separation during 
the winters was generally followed by a several days 
session, to make up for lost time. 


More than ever, during this interval of anxiety and 
unrest, he found solace in books and in his ,en. By 
good fortune, some moderate fund for a town library 
had come into existence, and the expenditure of it was 
wisely entrusted to David and his brother-in-law. He 
enjoyed a feast beyond description in the selecting and 
the reading of the books got together for this little 
library, which remained, for the time, in his custody, 
at his father’s house. Meanwhile, he and David Taylor 
were writing a deal of verse, more or less overstrained 


EEE Ee 


BOYHOOD IN WISCONSIN. 31 


in motive and more or less rough in workmanship, no 
doubt, but full of lyric promise. His first published 
poem, Outrivalled, which appears elsewhere in this 
volume, was written during some of these last months 
of Gray’s life in Wisconsin. It was contributed to a 
magazine issued by students at Carrol College, on the 
solicitation of a young gentleman whose acquaintance 
David had made at Portage, and who is now an eminent 
clergyman at Chicago—the Rev. Charles Thompson. 
In August, 1856, the new path in life which he had 


jonged for was opened suddenly before him. There 


eame to him, from his uncle at Buffalo, the offer of a 
place which seemed to have been niched for him by 
the kindest of all kindly fates. It was the post of 
secretary and librarian to the Young Men’s Christian 
Union of Buffalo,—an institution in its prosperous 
youth. He accepted the proffered office with glad 
eagerness; but, when the time came for quitting his 
home, his parents, his sister, his brother, his friends, 
he suffered as only a warm nature can. His heart was, 
most of all, wrenched by the parting with his mother, 
for whom his love exceeded the common bounds. 

So ended David Gray’s Lehrjahre—apprentice years 
—in the then far west. The life and the labors of a 
pioneer family in middle Wisconsin, thirty years ago, 
among neighbors dispersed at mile-wide intervals, with 
the chances of intellectual companionship that such a 
neighborhood would offer, with two brief terms of 
schooling at the high school or academy of a small 
western town,—these are not quite the training and 
education that one would plan for a boy of genius, 
between his thirteenth and his twentieth years. But 


ov BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


who can say that they were not better for David Gray 
than Harvard, or Oxford, or Heidelberg might have 
been? His natural genius was never warped, as might 
possibly have happened to it from a more artificial cul- 
tivation. The unique, idescribably charming native 
quality that was so marked in it, may have owed no 
little development to the long brooding-time of that 
isolated, worldless, primitive life. He kept his orig- 
inality of imagination and speech, his independence of 
thought and of act. He did not stay uncultured,—for 
he was of those who cannot be uncultured ;—of those 
who will find the means of culture in all situations, 
under all circumstances. On Fox River, the cireum- 
stances were more difficult than they might have been 
at Oxford; but the boy on Fox River found more in 
his Weekly Tribune, his half-dozen books, his one inti- 
mate intellectual companion, and the wilderness around 
him, than another would find in the Bodleian Library. 

It is possible that he had the rare fortune to be full- 
fed, without being over-fed. If he did come to man- 
hood with some leanness of knowledge, there seems no 
certainty that even that was ill to him, in after-life. 
He made himself a scholar whom any college might 
have had pride in producing, and he carried no burden 
of learning which he could not use. 


lc 


Ct AN. Pa late da bsL. 
Frrst YEARS IN BurFato. 1856-1859. 


On his coming to Buffalo, in the summer of 1856, 
David found a home among his relatives which replaced, 
as far as could be, the hearth he had left; and the new 
life into which he settled himself was, undoubtedly, 
pleasant to him from the first. He seems to have 
looked at Buffalo with expectant eyes, that were ready 
to grow fond; while the good city turned a kindly face 
to him, as though promising that she would take him 
to her heart. His employment was to his liking, and 
the surroundings of it were delightful. The Young 
Men’s Christian Union—it was styled so at that period 
—was then in the fourth year of its existence, and 
fairly well sustained. It had collected a well-chosen, 
small library of miscellaneous literature, and most of 
its books were still invitingly new. Its rooms, on the 
third floor of the Kremlin Hall building, at the corner 
of Eagle and Pearl streets, were extremely attractive, 
and the prospect from their windows, looking west- 
ward, towards the river and lake, was one which lives 
in the memory of the people who used to enjoy it. In 
those days, there was no city hall, nor other tall build- 
ing,—nor many buildings of any description, in fact, 
—to shut in the view. In Gray’s first letter, after 
settling himself in Buffalo, to his friend David Taylor, 


he gave this description of the place: 
3 


34 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


The Kremlin Hall, in which I am at present sitting, 
is a large four-story building, on a rising ground, about 
half a mile from the shore of Lake Erie. A little to 
the right, I look and see the mouth [the head] of the 
Niagara River,—the spot where the accumulated waters 
of the great lakes first get the hint about Niagara. 
The very Fox River sends its dribble right past 
my nose. And, then, away in front, the great lake 
stretches, full in sight, without a break, into the dim 
distance. In storm and calm it is splendid. At night, 
I see the long sea-line dimly illuminated, like the ocean 
in the picture in Moore; and, sometimes, in a storm of 
wind, the waves come down upon the long breakwater 
like a thousand regiments of Scotch Greys. It takes 
no great stretch of imagination to make it into the 
ocean. . . . If you had n’t written ‘ Beyond the Ocean’ 
I would have penned it myself. Something must come 
out of that, and shortly, too. 


These last words intimate a stir of impulse which 
he felt little of, on the whole, during those first weeks 
or months in Buffaio. He was not quite himself in 
his new environment. He experienced a certain dis- 
traction from the life of the city. After a month of 
it, he wrote to his school-friend, Lindsay: ‘It is a 
great change—so great that I am almost inclined to 
think that I have not fully realized it, yet; but, on 
the whole (it is a dull, wet day, to-day, and my spirits 
are tolerably sober),.and on the whole, I say, I think 
the change, whatever the ultimate upshot may be, is 
for the better. It is rather a comfortable thing to 
keep your hands clean and your back dry in all 
weathers, and never to feel the oppression of labor, 
dragging at your boots and making you an inch shorter 
at night than at morn.’ He possessed, as he knew, a 


; 
es. 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 3D 


wonderful protean quality of talent and temperament. 
‘I can adapt myself,’ he wrote to David Taylor, ‘to 
everybody and take everything as a matter of course. 
I am always wondering that I don’t wonder. I’ve 
never been surprised at anything.’ So, it amuses him 
to find himself ‘spinning along the broad streets of 
Buffalo, jostling beaux and belles,’ and he ‘laughs in 
his sleeve,’ he says, ‘at passing for one of them.’ He 
is forced, nevertheless, to confess, that he has not yet 
found new inspirations to replace the old ones. ‘There 
is a great temptation,’ he writes,.‘to smother the flame.’ 
‘Not that the city can furnish,’ he goes on to explain, 
‘any purer or keener pleasures ; but the bustle and con- 
fusion, the brick walls and paved streets and lamp- 
posts, form a scene for dreaming not quite so favorable 
as sunset from the end of your house, or moon-set from 
John Mahaffy’s fence.’ 

But, if the new surroundings are a little distracting, 
he would not have it supposed for a moment that he is 
discontented with them, or unhappy in them. It is 
true that he looks forward with strong hopes to a pos- 
sible visit home, the next spring; and he notes it as 
very strange that he has ‘lost all idea of going to visit 
Scotland,’ because ‘thinking of Wisconsin has fairly 
scorched Scotia out of my head; but do n’t think,’ he 
makes haste to protest, ‘that I am homesick and rue 
coming here. No, sir! I don’t intend to do that, by 
any possibility. The fact is, as far as the world goes, I 
am a hundred per cent. better off, here. But, if I had 
been transported into the Mussulman’s heaven of houris’ 
eyes, I should have occasionally fallen asleep in their 
full blaze, and taken a quiet doze and dream of home.’ 


36 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Then, ‘ talking of eyes,—and valiantly dashing, per- 
haps, a homesick tear or two out of his own,—he runs 
off into a slightly rattling discourse about the ‘ stun- 
ningly bright kipples’ he has seen since he came to 
Buffalo. He finds it ‘a perfect study to walk down 
Main street and draw blanks and prizes out of the lot- 
tery of passers-by. All sorts and sizes are exhibited.’ 

The half-understood confusion of mixed feelings 
which he found in himself, at that transition-time of 
his life, is revealed in the outpouring letters which he 
wrote to his supreme friend, ‘ Davie,’ during his first 
months in Buffalo. There is a medley of topics and a 
medley of moods in every one of them. Somewhat 
slowly, David worked himself back into occasional 
states of mind fit for verse-making, and began to ex- 
_ change bits, outlines, and sometimes complete poems, 
with his correspondent, for reciprocal criticism. His 
first venture was an attempt at the ‘something’ which 
‘must come out,’ as he had said, of that inspiring view 
of Lake Erie from his windows. Unhappily, it was only 
a fragment—a few lines of melodious, fanciful verse— 
which he seems to have never finished. He wrote to 
his friend that it ‘had birth from Lake Erie one fine 
summer-like day, and would have been Z’he Vision of 
the Lake if it had lived.’ The lines were these: 


Oh, never breaks the sound of oars 

Along these misty mantled shores ! 

Oh, never stirs among the trees 

The spirit of the slumbering breeze ! 

But, like a freighted bark with golden sails, 
The sunset fails and fails, 

Without a breath, into the blest 

Enchanted regions of the West. 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 37 


Oh, never on these changeless shores 

Pale winter blights and spring restores ; 

But, gathering glory year on year, 

The flowers their living faces rear, 

While over all forever streams 

A summer rich and dim with mist and dreams. 


Oh, silence, silence! Not a breath 
Troubles the calm—the calm of Death. 
And never, never, as I wist, 

Stand dimly pictured on the mist, 

The ships, or phantom-ship-like things, 
With spectral light upon their wings. 


This is in the spirit of Poe; and Poe was, at that 
time, very nearly, if not quite, Gray’s first favorite 
among the poets. His tastes were rather catholic,—he 
had a hungry appetite for everything that was really 
poetry; but the music and the mysticism—the weird 
dream-haze in Poe’s poems—were peculiarly fascinating 
to his imagination and his ear. 

The two Davids, in their correspondence, exchanged 
opinions on many poets, and on many poems besides 
their own, and the frank criticisms of the one whose 
letters we are permitted by his friend to read are ex- 
tremely interesting. Some passages may be quoted 
with justification : 


BUFFALO, September 23, 1856. 


... That... brings me back to a favorite topic— 
Poe. Almost the first thing I did when I got into this 
library, was to lay violent hands on an old volume of 
the Southern Literary Messenger, wherein, you know, 
our spink figured as editor. I found nothing new, 
except some critiques which we have not seen. No 
new poems,—but a good many of the old ones, in dif- 


38 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


ferent stages of progression towards the state in which 
they are booked. I tell you, Poe was an awful fellow 
to revise and alter. You could hardly tell some of 
his pieces in their primal form. Partly to give you an 
idea of this, and partly because there is little that is 
new, I will copy Zhe Valley Nis: 


No wind in Heaven, and lo! the trees 
Do roll like seas in Northern breeze 
Around the misty Hebrides. 


Don’t you think he should have left that as it is, 
which commences ‘No wind in Heaven’? That ‘Do 
roll like seas’ is first-rate. You’ve seen, in a storm of 
wind, the trees roll and sway, and, especially if you are 
looking down on them from a hill, the white backs of 
the leaves turned up, the pitch and turmoil of the 
whole, give it the very look of a sea in a storm. 

. .. I have never made out to see an edition of 
Chatterton, yet, although I have tried several times ; 
neither have I seen Tenny* in his last coat and trow- 
sers ; but I shall make it out soon and report faithfully. 


BUFFALO, October 28, 1856. 


. . » Now for general remarks: You have written, 
this time, too wildly, too savagely. You must calm 
yourself down, or you won’t fulfill printing requisites, 
which are, care, perfect guardedness at all points—not 
a rib exposed nor a useless feather flying. ... In 
writing about love, great caution is required, for it’s a 
risky business. There ’s no fear of your writing silly 
things in this line; your error is, galloping splash- 
dash, and drawing in things out of place. You would 
always need carefully to review, and if you could, in 
some kind of way, have your steed well bitted when 
you start out with her, it would be well. Do you write 


* Tennyson. 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 39 


with printing in view? ‘That should help you greatly. 
For I do believe that you have in you what the favored 
few only possess,—namely, imagination. Again, before 
you can stand up in print, you will have to undergo a 
world of labor and study. Your powers are the most 
undisciplined I ever knew. If I had half your brain 
I could make Buffalo vocal. As it is, a dry meal-pock 
_ occupies the region of my caput, and whatever is shaken 
out is unmistakably dry. 


BuFFALO, November 17, 1856. 


. . . L’m bursting to divulge. Tenny is yours, and 
with the morrow’s sun will be speeding to your em- 
brace. I am afraid you will be disappointed ; and yet, 
if you have any bowels, I do’nt see how you can. The 
fact is, 1 am aware that you like a large book, and the 
book is a small book; but oh! gem! pearl! chucky! 
what a book. The portrait, I cannot pick a flaw in; it 
far transcends the one in my copy. There are numer- 
ous pieces not to be found in mine, and all that are in 
mine or elsewhere are here. The type and arrange- 
ment, according to my ideas, are beautiful, and the 
eilt—Finis.* ... 

I am glad you are coming to your senses at the 
eleventh hour. I have long known The Lotos-eaters 
as a poem which swayed me mightily. I don’t see how 
the idea of dreamful calm and repose could be better 
conveyed. . . . The fact is, Tenny does a thing inva- 
riably after a way of his own—as nobody else would 
think of doing it. He is silly on his own model, and 
his namby-pamby (an abominable word—a word of 
my father’s) is nobody else’s namby-pamby. Enough. 
My sentiments on Tenny are well defined. . . . Altho’ 
his powers are none of the mightiest, they are unques- 
tionably of the finest kind. The piece you quoted in 


* It was undoubtedly a copy of Ticknor & Field’s ‘blue and gold’ 
edition. 


40 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


your letter has long been a favorite passage. I knew 
a kiplet of it and used to operate on it, long before I 
saw Moore between boards... . 

Having botched a sea-piece, I turned my energies to 
the construction of a ‘ Love-song;’ but I was so thor- 
oughly heart-whole that not a whine could I emit. I 
endeavored repeatedly to tear up some old gashes, fail- 
ing the infliction of any new ones; but the whole was 
such an entire failure that I immediately conceived and 
mentally executed a device, with motto. (The thing 
is not entirely original, but never mind.) Heraldically 
described the thing is this:—a heart gules, on a field 
azure; Cupids twain kicking and otherwise maltreat- 
ing the heart, in which they have vainly endeavored 
to stand a good article of the harpoon description. 
Motto (foreign): ‘ Devi lishto ughw ork.’ 


BUFFALO, December 18, 1856. 


... You must know that the strange, migratory 
tribe of strolling lecturers, musicians, men with pano- 
ramas, ete., are brought into immediate connection with 
your servant, he being guardian of a public hall. 
Well, a couple of this tribe hove in sight one day, pro- 
posing to hire the hall for a lecture on ‘ The Spiritual- 
ism of Poetry, to be illustrated by copious recitations 
from the poets, English and American.’ One of the 
coves I soon discovered to be the operator himself,—a 
short, broad man, who carried his breadth to a climax 
in the regions of alimentativeness and ideality. An 
enormous red beard and whiskers only added breadth. 
He was yelept Edward A. Z. Judson, and has, doubtless, 
been familiar to you as ‘Ned Buntline,’ a New York 
editor, romance- and tale-writer. . . . My lad came 
betimes, with a bundle of books under his arm; among 
Scott, Shelley, ete., I was swift to perceive the second 
tome of the despised Hdgar. ‘Hillo!’ says 1; ‘you 
have one of my men there, I see.’ ‘ Which?’ quoth 
Ned. He then opened and told off, in pithy sentences, 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 41 


how Poe and he had been bosom friends; how, amid 
all the caprices and misfortunes of both, the friendship 
had been-warm and close to the last; and how, among 
all the men that America was proud to call her sons, 
none was fit to be compared with the unmourned one 
she had lost. I fairly leaped and yelled. Enough of 
Poe; he’s sure enough to 


Win futurity’s plaudit note, 
And rise like the dead from the river’s bed, 
But deaf to the cannon that bid them float. 


BUFFALO, January 10, 1857. 


... L am beginning to detest letters as a medium 
of intercourse. That part of me which is my share of 
the currency between us defies me to nail it in a letter. 
I get prosing away on something else, or, if held to the 
subject, it is the mere body that is put on paper,—the 
soul all the while skimming out of arm’s reach and 
daring me to touch a feather of her. Davie, my boy, 
it takes actual contact to strike fire, like what was 
wont to blaze o’ nights. . . . Doesn't it have a 
strange appearance to you, looking back, now? ‘To be 
sure, you are not so fairly out of it as I am, and may 
not feel as I do; but, here, plucked up by the roots, so 
to speak, and without a single outlet for the old stuff, 
except these paltry letters, the recollection of some of 
those fiery nights comes over me like an experience got 
in some other planet. I don’t think our case is often 
paralleled, nowadays. Just think! Two minds, to all 
appearance in mortal slumber, suddenly burst into 
voleanic action of an extraordinary character. For I 
maintain, without intending to insinuate that our pow- 
ers—mine, at any rate—are anything more than com- 
mon,—I maintain, I say, that seldom is the human 
imagination, the ideal and supernatural of the mind, 
so wildly excited, so unnaturally distended, as were 
ours at intervals during the years of our ‘treck.’ Of 
course, drugs, fevers, ete., I don’t put in the count. 


42 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


You remember the era of tales grotesque and _hor- 
resque? You remember the two nights —the first 
especially—in which the act of Fascination was prac- 
ticed onme? Enough. Iam sure, if I should present 
myself for your inspection, now, you would find that 
vast alterations have passed over me and over the spirit 
of my dreams. What they are, I have not the slightest 
idea; so, of course, I can’t be expected to describe 
them. Since leaving you, I have sort of lost track of 
my inner self. 
‘O’er many a wild and magic waste, 

Thy footsteps, Psyche, I have traced.’ 

But now the shadows fall so thickly 

Above me, round me, and so fickly 


Do thy pinions gleam before, 
I shall see thee nevermore. 


I would that we might take again 

The backward path by glade and glen ; 
That thou would’st clasp my hand in thine, 
And thrill me with thine eyes divine, 

And breathe low in mine ear the themes 
That angels sing to thee in dreams. 


Oh! once, before me, far and clear, 

I heard thy singing, ‘Here! ’tis here !’ 
But all so loudly jarred the strife, 

The clangor and the battle of life, 
Alas! the affrighted echoes bore 

The voice away—I hear no more. 


Pretty fair, that. What do you think? Positively 
an off-hand shot... . 

I have got Mrs. Browning’s new book, Aurora Leigh, 
and partly read it. It is a perfect pyramid of poetical 
accretions. Inexhaustible imagination—mines of words 
—new ideas in myriads, and piercing eye-sight for 
human nature in all its forms, done up in blank; and 
after all—what? I admit it all: Shakspere is good; 
so is Mrs. B.; but give me Tammy’s Canadian Boat- 
song,—let me doze over Poe’s Sleeper, or thrill with 
his Laven, or grow weirdly happy in The Lotos-eaters, 
—and, rising from my carouse, I will maintain, with 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 43. 


all my might and mind, that I have imbibed more 
poetry than can be squeezed or bittled out of Shak-. 
spere, with Awrora Leigh thrown in... . 

Do n't, for love’s sake, Davie, ever hunt for some- 
thing to praise in anything I write,—to break the stroke 
of the correcting rod, as it were. Let it come. At. 
least do as well by me as I do by you. I am honest. 
Every abominable thing I’ve sent you has been only 
fit to be scouted into annihilation, and you should have 
said so. I would have felt better, when telling the 
truth about you. But Ill send you something soon, 
my boy, that will gar ye jump. 


BuFFALO, February 16, 1857, 


. .. I occasionally take an opportunity to sing a. 
few verses of a favorite poet, after your own style and 
tune, and with all the rhetorical tremor I learned at 
your feet. I heard my uncle say, the other day, that 
I was a good reader of poetry—he liked to hear me 
read poetry—or something of that sort. Very good. 
I'll give him Across the Lake* some day. The fact is, 
Davie, I have sounded a good few youths since I came 
here, and, in various ways, gathered a good deal of 
observation. I know of no one in whom poetry is the 
same article it is in us, at all. Many like poetry; but 
I have yet to meet one who has’ trod on the lonely 
shores we were wont to haunt. Here’s for you: 


ke 


It is a thing that few have ever gained, 
Or (being ignorant) have cared to gain— 

The key, whereby our souls step forth unchained— 
The power that launches worlds within a brain. 

Few, few, can follow when the viewless train 
Of Poesy sweeps by ; when, face unveiled, 

Wild Wonder leads ; when space and years are slain, 
And seas, whereo’er the wing of Dreams had failed 
Spread backward, till undreamed-of shores are hailed. 


* One of David Taylor’s poems, which had just reached him. 


44 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


II. 
The scenery of Earth hath might to dart 
Angelic longing thro’ the sluggish vein; 
But quicker, wildlier thrills and throbs the heart 
Who steers his bark forth on the mighty main 
Of mind: O! wanderer, why seek Earth again? 
Dew-giving stars do guard these regions. Moons 
Above the valleys circle ever, nor wane. 
There dwell in dance and dream a thousand Junes, 
And Dawn, star-chainéd in the east, forever upward swoons. 


BuFFALO, March —, 1857. 


. No, Davie,—I am not the man to slur Shelley, 
or take an inch from the measure of his mighty genius, 
because he utters sentiment utterly repugnant to my 
soul and mind. I will enjoy him in the face of all the 
world, and no one shall decry Shelley in my hearing 
without hearing something from me direct. But try 
to put yourself in my position, for a moment; try and 
realize the relation which I believe (to use no stronger 
word) to exist between Almighty God and myself; 
and then you will see that, in doing what I have said 
above, I strain endurance and charity to the utmost. 
I am not, like some you have probably seen, pretending 
to the same name that I myself appropriate, who can 
listen coolly, and even smile wanly, when they hear the 
Being they believe to be their Creator reviled. I can’t 
stand it, and my emotions towards you are what they 
are because you never asked me to stand it. Now I 
have done on this subject. 

Of all the glorious things that ever I read, I think 
The Spirit of Solitude cows the gowan. Have you 
ever read it? If not, don’t delay a day. I can’t 
understand that, jargon of Poe’s, about Shelley’s poetry 
requiring to be improved on in Tennyson’s person, in 
order to reach the ideal of what poetry should be. It 
appears to me that Shelley’s poetry is as perfect, as 
regards style and diction, as ever poetry will be, or 
need to be. Do you know that piece in Prometheus, 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 45, 


where Asia (or Panthea) sees the Hours chasing 
Eternity thro’ Space? What a picture! Talk of 
erouping and effect on canvas! There never was any- 
thing put on by brush to approach that, for terrific 
power; every word gives the idea of speed, speed— 
fearful! When I read it and hold the book away, so. 
that I can scarcely distinguish the words, I seem to see 
speed in the very arrangement of the sentences. . . . 

I am weary, I am dead-tired and heart-broke to see 
how blind and more than brainless, with regard to. 
poetry, the bulk of mankind are... . 

There is nothing to be seen, here, but the eternal 
swing of women’s dresses and men’s legs on the street. 
I don’t think I study faces as much as I used to do,, 
when I saw fewer. I am often driven, when I do, to. 
the conviction that they are a miserable, mysteriously 
restless, hurrying set of beings that swarm upon this. 
earthly ball. Nothing in their faces but uneasy hurry, 
as a general thing. I sometimes think that my own 
phiz ought to be a matter for exhibition, in regard to. 
serenity and apparent peace among the wretches. 


BuFFALO, Apri 19, 1857. 


. . . | trudged contentedly with you, the other day,, 
to the moon and Venus; so bear with me if I jaunt 
you a little, where I have been sojourning a good deal 
of late myself. Kxpect nothing wonderful, or beau-. 
tiful; but, if you feel as I feel, you will be full of 

lorious sadness while we tarry in the far away Valleys 
of Childhood. Childhood is a mystie thing—a scroll 
if you will—with strange lettering and characters, 
committed for a little while to every member of the 
human family. For a little while, only; for, before he. 
is able to know the writing,—before he even knows. 
that it is secret and mysterious,—the scroll is drawn 
out of his reach, rolled up and sealed. He may philos- 
ophize as much as he pleases on it, afterward,—he can. 


46 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 

never experiment. I don’t know whether it was you 
who struck me with a love of sunsettings; I rather 
think it is born, always, with any share of the poetic 
temperament; at any rate, I always go ‘jaunting’ in a 
country of sunsets. It was in a broad, breezy meadow, 
with slopes in it, where the boys could lie down and 
roll horizontally to the bottom, and towards the end of 
the afternoon, that I struck into the Land of Child- 
hood, lately. It seems to me that the scene is a memory, 
not a fancy, and, if so, very, very far distant. At any 
rate, when I went into the meadow, there were a great 
number of boys and girls playing ; some of them seemed 
big, like; but I know it was only because I was very 
little, myself, and very young, that they seemed so. 
They were all really young and small, and could not, 
most of them, speak other than childishly. The noise 
of play was boisterous, while the sun kept moderately 
high; but by and by the shadows began to lengthen, 
and the children gathered into little knots and talked 
to each other, and the sound of voices was the only 
sound ;—whereas, before, the sport was deafening and 
indistinguishable as to speech. The wind had blown 
pleasantly, thro’ the afternoon, and kites were high, 
high up. As sunset came on, everything fell motion- 
less, and the kites stood away off, serene and far, with 
their strings tight and visible, the whole length up. 
The children, I say, had gathered into knots. They 
were mostly little girls,—I rather think I was the only 
boy; but that could n’t be, for there were kites,—and 
some of the lassies had curly hair and had their bonnets 
swinging behind them by the ribbon round their necks. 
Presently, they began a quiet kind of game. In it 
they had to sing. They made strange motions and 
actions to one another, and their song came every little 
‘while to me (I was walking away by this time): 


Water, water, wall-flower, growing up so high, 
We are aj] maidens, and we must all die. 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 47 


Everything was done soberly and without mirth. 
The sun set, and the whole air was an ocean of amber 
light, that colored the faces of the children, and gave 
all the landscape an air of unreality. It stayed a long 
time so; they played the same game over and over 
again, and their voices got sadder and sweeter, as if 
they were mourning for something. But, at last, the 
whole meadow with the amber light upon it took the 
aspect of a shore, which grew slowly into distance, as 
if I had been sailing away. All the children kept 
playing on, solemnly, taking no notice of me; and 
away they faded, with the song floating behind them: 


Water, water, wall-flower growing up so high, 
We are all maidens, and we must all die. 


And so the shore remained, with them playing on it, 
while I was wafted backwards, towards the evening 
star. Finis. 

I astonish youngsters, here, sometimes, by my actions. 
I make numerous acquaintances in my daily peregrin- 
ations. JI ask sometimes for a ‘hudd’ of a fine, 
steady-flying kite, and I feel her tugging (tweging— 
much better, isn’t it?) with all my old pride. I tell 
you, sir! a kite is good play for boys, but it is also 
good enough for men. There must be delicious agony 
in pulling the thing out of the clouds. 


BUFFALO, April 30, 1857. 


. . . I have been, just now, as near having the crys- 
tal fountains unsealed as is often my lot in this drying, 
scorching world. Over what, do you think? Nothing 
less than old Wordswords! There’s a quality in some 
of his things which melts you down into a little child. 
You lose all manliness and weep like a wean; i. e., 
going in that course, such is the result. 


48 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


A simple child, dear brother Jem,* 
That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 
What should tt know of death? 


I met a little cottage girl, 

She was eight years old, she said, 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 


Wordsworth has a kind of weanly way of giving a 
life and speech to humble animals, and even plants, 
and especially children, which, if not poetry, is yet 
unclassed in literature... . 

- TI often feel, about nightfall, a sort of wanting some- 

thing. I strive to recollect what it is lacking, and then 
it flashes: I would just jump over the fence and 
thro’ the pasture-lot, and ower the swamp, and be on 
you in a crack! Alas! alas! ‘Tears, idle tears—I 
know not what they mean.’ (Read it)... . 

Let me give you some pickings from my readings. 
lately. Wordsworth has the finest description of a 
cataract at a distance from the beholder! He describes. 
it as ‘frozen in distance.’ Does that not hit the thing? 
There is a fine line, speaking of a flower in a lonely 
place, and giving it a sort of woman or spirit life in 
the solitude. It is like so and so, or 


lady of the mere, 
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance ! 


De Quincey thinks this, perhaps, the finest line in the 
poetry of earth. I don’t. But isn’t it rather a start- 
ling idea,—to be called on to point out the highest line 
that ever formed beneath a mortal pen? Where would 
you go? Certainly not to Shakspere. Shelley, perhaps. 

I am too late of beginning, now, but I had it in my 
head, last week, to give you a kind of recantation of 


* Coleridge, who improvised the first stanza of the poem We are 
Seven, gave this form to the first line of it. Wordsworth cancelled 
the ‘dear brother Jem,’ and it has usually been published with the 
line incomplete. 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 49 


my former poetic belief. I abjure Tennyson, in a cer- 
tain sense, and cling to Shelley and Robert Burns. 
Tennyson, in this sense: He is a poet—a true poet— 
but not a model, as Poe would have us believe. He 
has made no advance in the riddle of poetic diction. 
It is as much a riddle as it ever was. What, in your 
idea, is the true language of poetry? It isn’t the lan- 
guage of carters and idiots, as Wordsworth would have 
us believe. It isn’t full of dictionary words ending 
osity and ation, as Barrett says it is. It isn’t draw- 
ing-room clack, as Tammy Moore has it. What in 
thunder is it? 


BUFFALO, June 17, 1857. 


I am taking lessons from a tall, officer-like 
Teuton, in the mysteries of the German tongue. AI- 
- ready, | begin to have the veil lifted a little, and, of 
course, it is to the poetic quarter in the new language 
that I first resort. My feelings are not so strong as 
yours. It is a rare occasion that makes my voice falter 
and my eyes feel in the least like tears. I never re- 
member of crying for anything, short of a whipping or 
a severe scolding. Stumbling across an extract from 
Goethe, though, the other day, | was powerfully moved, 
again and again. I don’t expect you will care any- 
thing about it; for, of two coves who ever covenanted 
together, you and I, in most things, are the most un- 
speakably different; but I will tell it, at all events: 
‘ Mignon,’ says a foot-note, in the coolest possible voice, 
‘Mignon is one of the most interesting characters in 
Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister. In her earliest childhood 
she was secretly carried off from her home in Italy by 
a company of strolling jugglers and trained to perform 
feats on the rope, ete. Meister, who one day happened 
to witness the performance of this troupe, during which 
the child was unmercifully abused, obtained possession 
of her and became her protector. One morning, he 

+ 


50 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


was surprised to find her before his door singing this 
song [I will append it]* to a cithern which had acci- 
dentally fallen into her hands. On finishing her song 
for the second time; she stood silent for a moment, 
looked keenly at Wilhelm, and asked him, Anowest 
thou the land? Jt must be Italy, said Wilhelm (the 
history of the child was yet a mystery to him); where 
did’ st thou get the little song? Italy! said Mignon, 
with an earnest air,—if thou go to Italy take me along 
with thee, for I am too cold here. Hast thou been 
there already, little dear? said Wilhelm. But the child 
was silent, and nothing more could be got out of her.’ 
Oh, Davie! I think that is the most pathetic, the most 
tenderly touching thing I ever read. . . . ‘ Jtaly, said 
Mignon, with an earnest air; if thou go to Italy take 
me along with thee, for I am too cold here’! Qh, 
man! I tell you that touches me in a tender spot, some- 
how or other. 


BUFFALO, July 10, 1857. 


Behold me a hulk, from which the lowest ebb of the 
tide has drawn away the water, so far that only a dis- 
tant sound of the sea comes where there once was the 
fresh lash of waves. Whether there ever will come a 
time which shall set me afloat, anew, is a question. I 
think—floating being understood to mean the motion 
of the pure poetic temperament in which, with you, I 
once gloried—not. Can it be possible that I shall 
subside into the miserable, contented, evenly-balanced 
wretch my present dispositions indicate? When I have 
any stirrings of the old kind in me, now, they never 
amount to anything above the merest commonplace. 
I am totally out of the land of visions. ... I think, 
now, it must have been your influence upon my sus- 
ceptible (no more) mind that made me, for a time, 
what I was. J have no power within myself,—none. 
I could almost throw up everything, now, and come 


* Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bltihn ? 


a 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 51 


back and sojourn with you, away on the hills, up from 
your high field, as far as Wilson’s and the Observatory. 
I think if I was there it would be all right. 


2 BUFFALO, September 22, 1857. 


Yours of the fifth September has lain, a thorn in 
my side, till now. I have not felt able for the effort. 
. . . Of all my experiences, down among the dry, dark, 
rocky barrens of the ‘valley,’ I think none are so 
thorough and far-reaching as my late ones. Poetry— 
fled. Not a rag of her raiment left; nothing but a 
vague, gnawing regret, at best, and a dull, aching 
vacancy, at worst, where she used to reign. If I could 
fall in love; if I could meet somebody who could raise 
me; if I could get letters from you every day,—I 
might feel like my old self again. But, alas! none of 
these turn up, and I am in the very depths of soulless- 
ness. ... The fact is, the old Davie Gray had better 
be declared defunct, at once. I don’t feel as if one of 
my old powers was left me,—those which I counted so 
much on improving. ... O,I1 wish you had me a 
day, the now, Davie—ony a day—up there somewhere 
between your field and the old Observatory! It would 
be worth millions to me... . 

The weather has lived out the summer, now; the air 
to-night is clear and cold, with a brisk breeze. I can _ 
faney you in the old howff, as vividly as possible, and 
almost persuaded myself, a minute ago, that I was 
threading my way among the trees, between Willie’s 
and Davie Mair’s. If I am— 


The stars are out, and eastward fly 
Some scattered clouds along the sky; . 
The night is clear, but sharp and shrill, 
The wind is whistling o’er the hill, 
And with a dreary autumn sound 

The trees are stirred, above, around. 
Oh! with a sweet and strange surprise 
Each sigh o’erfloods me, soul and eyes, 
And every sound— 


a2 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Bless me! I’m far on the road to tool-ool,—which is 
an exercise unworthy manhood; so avaunt, such lugu- 
brious imaginings! .. . 

What do you ever read now? Are you still among 
the old books? I have n’t read a book this summer. 


BUFFALO, October 28, 1857. 


Since I have had yours by my side, my mind, to 
quote from some fair authoress or other, has been ‘a 
tumult of conflicting emotions.’ One thing only is 
clear in my mind: poetry must go up, now. The star 
is clear and in the ascendant. All my old literary fire 
is aglow, again, and Davie, my boy, I will stick by you 
in this till something gives. ... Let me tell you of 
a scheme now in motion among myself and one or two 
others. It is, to start a weekly paper, or magazine, to 
be devoted purely to literature and art,—something 
after the model of Chambers’ Journal, although not, 
perhaps, so large and ambitious, at first. It would be 
designed to subsist for a while solely on a city cireula- 
tion; but might and would undoubtedly thence expand, 
as Chambers’ did. Now, if this goes off, you are 
nailed as a constant contributor. It is with my eye on 
you that I mostly feel so sanguine. 


Before the close of his first year in Buffalo, Gray 
had gathered around him a considerable circle of young 
men, more or less congenial in character and tastes. 
He had exercised a kind of selective attraction on the 
bookish and thoughtful-minded youth of the city, draw- 
ing them together, as to a place of rendezvous, at the 
pleasant library-rooms of the Christian Union. One 
and another had found him out there; had discovered 
that the quiet charm of the place gained another charm 
when they got speech with the young Scot who reigned 





FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 53 


in it. Making acquaintance with him, they were led 
to acquaintance with one another, and thus was formed 
a considerable group, which became cemented by strong 
friendships, lasting far into the years that were then 
to come, even down to the present day. ‘The first- 
comers of this group, which had David Gray for its 
nucleus and the Christian Union Library for its rally- 
ing-point, presently organized themselves into a modest 
and small literary club, which held formal weekly 
meetings, for the reading, discussion and criticism of 
original papers, and for self-improvement in other 
modes. Four countries—Ireland, Scotland, America 
and England—were represented in the membership of 
the young club: and so they framed an odd name for 
it out of the initials I, S, A, E. It was called the 
‘Isae Club.’ But the weekly club meetings of this 
‘Isae’ group were the mere formalties of their inter- 
course. They came together, additionally, on all oppor- 
tunities. It was an understood principle of conduct 
among them that, whenever one had the smallest half- 
hour of time at his command, he should carry it 
straight for expenditure to that certain southwestern 
corner of the Christian Union Library which was the 
appointed trysting-place. There were not many after- 
noons and evenings that did not witness a gathering of 
David’s confederates, there, in full force or partly, for 
high talk, about many things. Sometimes they sus- 
pended their own talk for an evening, to take part in 
the public debates which the Christian Union had 
instituted, and which took place, for a time, in an 
adjoining committee-room. From among the visitors 
to those debates they drew occasionally a new recruit 


54 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


into their ranks, and the group gradually increased to 
a dozen or more in number. One who was really the 
first to be joined with David Gray, in gathering up the 
other friends into that most natural growth of com- 
radeship, wrote about it some years afterwards, as 
follows : 


Whether debates were held on not,—let the weather 
be foul or fair,—let amusements be many or few,—in 
the afternoon and evening of each day, more or less 
young men could be found in that library-room. Seri- 
ous, earnest and profitable conversations were held 
there; strong and vigorous discussions of varied and 

endless character, on science, history, philosophy, polit- 
ical economy, politics and poetry. All subjects and all 
matter were themes for those hours. Art, too, was 
studied, from Ruskin, whose fine rhetorical sentences 
carried the young mind captive. Then, in the quiet 


evening, those wonderful sunsets, away over Lake Erie, 


down by the Canadian woods, (surely there have been 
no such sunsets since, or the Kremlin is the only place 
to see them!) when the purple and crimson and filmy 
white shot up the deep azure, and, with other gorgeous 
tints and hues, painted lake and island, tower and pin- 
nacle, away above the western horizon! Never poet. 
expressed such beauty; never painter caught on the 
canvas the resemblance of it! You may think this 
language extravagant; but every one who watched, 
night after night, those summer and autumn sunsets, 
will bear witness to their inexpressible glory. 


Perhaps the glory of the sunsets and the fine fury of 
the talk which we enjoyed, on those long-ago nights, 
borrowed some effect from the exalted glow of feeling 
which Gray could so easily kindle in himself and com- 
municate to others, around him. It is certain that the 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 55 


scenes and the feelings of those nights are burned as 
with fire in the memory of all who shared them. 
The organized club of the ‘Isae’ had no long exist- 


ence. It was drowned out, as it were, by the freer 


and larger association that followed it and went on 
around it. But, after a little time, it was succeeded by 
another organization, which enveloped the companions 


- of the Kremlin in an ampler way and acquired a more 


permanent character. This was a club which, in sheer 
despair of finding a satisfactory name, called itself ‘The 
Nameless.’ Its objects were those common to its kind. 


- It debated all sorts of questions and practiced all sorts 


of literary composition, in verse and prose; but its 
chief end, after all, was to cultivate good-fellowship 
among its members,—and it did so with excellent suc- 
cess, for many years. _ 

As factors in the life of David Gray, these clubs, 
and the more spontaneous rallyings in the Kremlin 
Hall library-rooms, out of which they came, were un- 
questionably of great importance. They gave him some 
of the enduring friendships of his life. They stimu- 
lated him when few other stimulations were acting on 
him; they stirred his interest in a greater variety of 
things, among the subjects of thought and knowledge, 
than he was naturally disposed to give attention to; 
and so they contributed some breadth to his develop- 
ment. . 

Meantime, he was becoming considerably known in 
larger circles, outside of these more intimate comrades. 
He had given several short poems to print, in one of 
the newspapers of the city, which discriminating eyes 
quickly recognized as being poetry, in very truth. The 


56 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


first of them was Zhe Fog-Bell at Night, which ap- 
peared in the Buffalo Express one day in October, 
1856. It was followed by Elihu Burritt, The Crew 
of the Advance, and other modest ventures, all of 
which will be found among the poems printed else- 
where in this volume. The reputation they gained for 
the writer was, so far, slight and very limited, of 
course; but they were helping to open his way in life 
—the way that he was appointed to tread. A little 
later, he began to make himself known as a prose-writer 
to the reading public of Buffalo, by a series of charm- 
ing essays, on such simple topics as Houses, A Winter 
Night and its Visitors, A Word about Grave-yards, 
and the like, which he contributed to The Home,—a 
literary monthly then published in Buffalo, by Mrs. 
H. E. G. Arey and Mrs. C. H. Gildersleeve. 

During the year 1858, and most of 1859, David's 
life is traced sufficiently in a few passages taken out of 
his letters to his friends. His father and family had 
lately quitted the Wisconsin farm, at Roslin, and set- 
tled in a new residence, at Detroit. The first letters 
from which we quote were written during a visit to 
them, and were addressed to one of his Buffalo friends : 


TO JAMES N. JOHNSTON. 


DeErroit, January 21, 1858. 


. . « Day before yesterday night, I was at a friend’s 
house, where a lively, friendly party prevailed. My 
friend has two of the most prettily beautiful little 
girls!) You have often heard me express myself on 
this portion of created things, and I will only say 
again, that, notwithstanding my fervid appreciation of 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. ae 


female humanity in a more advanced stage, I would be 
content to forego all, if | might but be permitted to 
dwell in the perfect purity and quaint delicious happi- 
ness of little girls’ society. There is something in it 
that satisfies me almost to tears. Ye shades of Par- 
nassus!—all the glory of the rose is in the rosebud, 
and the veiled mystery of the bud is dearer to me 
than the flaunting openness of the full blossom! I 
discovered, here, at my friend’s house, a new power,— 
namely, for faery tales. I addressed myself to the 
little girls, and I speedily had them touching me with 
their delicate, feathery-soft hands and coaxing me to 
tell a story. And, at once, the flood-gates of faery 
romance opened and the stream flowed. I took them 
up to the top of a high hill, lush with flowers and 
crowned with a brake of bells—bluebells—and built a 
little bower for a fairy in a moccasin flower, furnished 
faery fashion; and I filled them with longing for the 
sweet shadow and ecstacy of the flower-land. Then, I 
took one of themselves to be a little kilmeny—and so 
forth, and so forth, and so forth. At any rate, they 
hung around me for the rest of the story, and took my 
heart away, up-stairs, with them to bed, and only left 
the sweet press of their soft faces on mine, to keep me 
happy forever. .. . 

There’s an industrial school here, which, mentally 
viewed, in connection with the region of the Canal 
Street Sunday-school, stirs strange desires and designs 
in my mind. I am more and more convinced that, if 
a fellow does not make himself useful, he is losing his 
time in this world, whatever may be the result in 
another. I believe this is a conclusion demonstrable 
on strict principles of logic. Don’t you feel as if an 
unlimited field is discerned through the scarcely open 
portals of Canal Street Mission ? 

Did you ever see such a winter? Of course not, 
nobody ever did. The sun is monarch of an untainted 
realm of pure ether. Winter! perish the thought ! 


58 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Take it out into the sunshine,—melt it,—dry it,—scat- 
ter it, upwards, in the immeasurable heights of light 
and heat. I put for the nearest point of woods, this 
morning, and again realized the truth that the city is. 
not universal, but rather a dot, or blot, surrounded by 
an expanse of unpolluted country, inhabited only (or 
for the most part) by things of God’s own instituting, 
and traversed by the wandering winds. 


TO EDMOND LINDSAY. 
BuFFALO, March 5, 1858. 


... Your account of John L ’s death fills me 
with sorrowful thoughts. JI mind not only of hin, 
though his quiet face and modest demeanor are vivid 
enough with me, but of a time when it seemed to me 
death came very near and grew familiar with me. I 
mean, when Robert P died, when his sister’s death 
was still fresh in our minds, and when the thrill of 
your sickness and possible death were all so terribly 
close upon me. Oh! I tell you I was better and wiser 
then than I am now, with forgetfulness and the pres- 
ence of the new all but smothering the old out of my 
mind. Just think of it! Robert’s life and mine were 
parallels. Since his stopped, what a rugged and strain- 
ing line mine has drawn, and by how many rough, 
winding stages will it draw itself, till the long line of 
the parallel be, also, cut off by a grave? ‘Then the 
prayer of that old impracticable anomaly of a father 
of his comes audibly into my mind: ‘Fit us a’ for 
leevin’, faither! but, above a’, prepare us for deein’!’ 








TO THE SAME. 
BuFFALO, May 9, 1858. 


Your very acceptable letter, long and most interest- 
ing, awaited me on my return home, two weeks ago. 
‘Return home’ implies absence, and I may as well tell 
you, now, the delightful journey I took. I went as 
delegate from the Y. M. C. Union, here, to a national 


i? te ~—C 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 59 


convention of similar bodies, held April 22, at Charles- 
ton, S. C.; so that, when you were writing the sheet. 
now at my side, I was pacing, in delicious mood, the 
almost tropical vicinities of Charleston. I went to 
New York, thence by steamboat to C. The voyage 
was glorious,—perfect halcyon days, three in number, 
—calm, sunny, and in the face of a gentle wind that. 
softened to absolute balm as we sailed south. Then, 
~ Charleston! Just think of leaving ice in the harbor,. 
here, and, at the first sight of land, seeing the luxuri- 
ance of the tropics—almost (again); for, what with 
palmettos, figs and a hundred other trees and products 
strange to my eyes, I seemed floated into a new world, 
altogether. J can only think of Columbus at San 
Salvador. My time in the city and the convention was. 
spent in a continual festival of enjoyment. I returned 
to New York again by sea. 


TO JAMES N. JOHNSTON. 
CHARLESTON, S. C., April 18, 1858. 


I should have written you sooner, had I not, in the 
first place, been made somewhat lazy by the glorious 
tropical weather, and, in the second, been fain to indulge 
mine eyes, ears, soul and sense in the torrent of sur- 
rounding novelty... . My host is a Mr. N , an- 
ciently of Scotland,—a retired and very wealthy mer- 
chant, keeping a regal establishment. A carriage and an 
immense crowd of darkies are at my command. Verily, 
this is seeing life! My room-mate (O, such a room! ) 
is Richard C. McCormick, editor of the Young Men’s 
Magazine,—the man of all others whom I wished to 
come across. Singularly enough, all has come out in a 
peculiarly favorable manner. ... If I weren’t too 
lazy, I should laugh incessantly at the darkies. They 
are amusing, numerous and perfectly opaque. Slavery, 
in my mind, however, does not change its position the 
one-hundreth of a hair’s breadth. 





‘60 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BuFFALO, August 2, 1858. 


. .. The other night it rained, in brief showers, 
and, in the pauses, the moon came out brightly upon 
the wet leaves. The fresh smell, the stillness, the light, 
—everything, brought up to my mind yon piece of 
yours, The Thunder-King, and I would have given 
my purse to have had it by me. 


Every leaf of the soundless oak 
Lent its voice as the melody broke. 


~ Oh, bliss! What a rapture came over me with these 


lines! I thought they portrayed a sort of hidden inner 
life in nature, which only revealed itself in such rare 
seasons, and I was happy,—happy almost to tears. If 
it isn’t too much trouble, hunt up that piece and copy 
it off for me; or, better, take a copy and send me 
down the old original. I remember every flourish. Do 
this last without fail, next letter. ... 1 am sure, 
nobody but you or I can see anything very meritorious 
in that poem; and yet I know it gets deeper into a 
certain ecstatic vein of poetic passion than any lines 
extant in any language. Or, rather, it touches a vein 
untouched,—totally untouched,—elsewhere. Hither 
that, or it must be by association with ideas originated 
and in play in our minds about that time. It is an 
indubitable fact, that lines of your poems have a 
firmer hold upon me, and stir me up to the true, 
delicious thrill, more, far more, than any lines of any 
poem in print. 


TO EDMOND LINDSAY. 
BuFFALO, September 3, 1858. 


. Iam sorry to hear such poor accounts of your 
crops, this year.... I am beginning to be in the wheat 
trade, myself, a little now. I act as clerk, half my 








FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 6% 


time, for my uncle, who is engaged in milling, again. 
I am already considerably initiated into the mys- 
teries of book-keeping, etc. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


BuFFALO, March 11, 1859. 


. .- When I wrote you last, I was in a somewhat. 
uncertain state as to my occupation for the year to. 
come. I have now got that matter settled, thank 
Heayen? It gave mea great deal of worry. I stay 
as book-keeper with my uncle’s firm—engaged in the 
milling business; so I expect, though I shall have 
harder work than ever, hitherto, that my pecuniary 
matters will be in a convalescent condition. Well, 
about six weeks ago, I took a sudden notion in my 
head and threw up my situation in the library. It was 
a nominal one, as regards salary, and I felt myself be- 
coming too much of a fixture; so I bolted. Then, in 
the interim, before my uncle’s folks decided that they 
wanted me, I had a queer time, walking about the 
streets with all the strange feelings of an isolated, 
independent mortal; independent to roam the world 
and seek adventure; independent to lie down in some. 
quiet corner and die; free to get rich or to starve. I 
tell you, I had some funny times. All the while, I had. 
a vague vision at the back of the whole, of me, coming 
some night—one of those warm moonlight nights in 
which we used to walk and talk half-way into morning 
—and wakening you up and telling you that I was. 
coming to stay with you; and then of us, working 
together, up on the hill, and sitting at the side of the. 
field, having long confabs, and taking journeys off, 
when it suited us, and being able between us to make 
an easy living out of the land.... If you were ta. 
take a new location, in some new place, I think I would 
join you, to-morrow. ... Iam likely to do well; my 
friends tell me that my prospects are good, and I sup-. 


} 


62 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


pose they are. I suppose this means that, as far as 


eye can reach or imagine it reaches, ahead, there is 


unlimited worldly work, and that all the old joys and 
toys are left forever behind. Oh, I can hardly bear it 
—this change—this pushing off into the desert! 


I sit on this last oasis of youth ; 
Before me stretches the dim desert-sand;— 
No more—no more,—I feel it now, in sooth,— 
Shall gushing streams refresh and glad the land. 
Around me, risivg slow, the phantom-band 
Of hopes and joys, that all my way beguiled, 
Fade backwaid from me—wave the parting hand, 
And leave me lonely in this desert’s wild, 
With no more heart or hope than a forsaken child. 
[ Exit funeral. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BUFFALO, April 19, 1859. 


. .. L was up at Detroit in the beginning of the 
month, and I may as well tell you a thing or two about 
that. . . . Next night, after everybody was in bed, I 


called Walter to account, in a matter which he had un- 
-dertaken under oath to do for me—to wit, the keeping 


of my documents, gathered in Wisconsin. He pro- 
duced them, all safe, under seal. Did I ever tell you 
the agonized attempt I made, the morning I got up to 
go away from Roslin, to put them (the papers) in 
a bottle? I could n’t get one big enough in the neck, 


and so was obliged to give them up to Walter. I 


meant to bury the bottle, over about the big hollow. 
I was very much surprised to see many things so 


good as they are, of that early period; and very much 
-amused at many of them, too,—especially the ones I 


thought, once, were least amusing. With scarce an 


-exception, the pieces I thought were hits, beyond con- 


troversy—these are perfect trash. It was like taking 


off my grave-clothes—as if I had been a mummy— 


undoing the wrappages, one by one. Some pencilings 


of yours are on some of the papers, which brought to 
mind many queer things. 


FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 63 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BuFFras.o, May 5, 1859. 


...I1 am going about, these days, in a kind of 
referee, as Mr. Weller phrased it, consequent on the 
complete change of the weather prospects and the 
accompanying results. With May, began a period, 
unbroken till now, of weather absolutely awful in 
beauty. Unclouded skies, the warmth and softness of 
air of the South Sea Islands,—perfect, regal Summer 
on her throne, already. Slowly, as the days advance, a 
sort of filmy haze gathers over her features, making the 
stars, at night, and the sharp semi-circle of the new 
moon, as they approach the horizon, assume a bright 
red appearance, as of ship-lamps hung up in unseen 
shrouds, and, in the day-time, taking the sharp azure 
from the lake and from the sky and welding them in 
one sheet of burnished whiteness. High up in this 
magic element, ships pass, dreamily, to and fro, or 
mysteriously float upon extended wings, where, a mo- 
ment before, you saw nothing. The leaves of the trees, 
the flowers and grass of the fields, all stand in their 
accustomed places, but with an odd sort of astonished 
look upon them, as if they had wakened out of some 
queer dream, and had not yet found their speech. I 
know this is the way things are going on, altho’, as far 
as material vision goes, I have seen little but glimpses 
of the soft sky over tall brick walls. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BUFFALO, June 24, 1859. 


. . . She holds herself inscrutable. Not a ray, not 
a hair of light will she suffer to drop through her words 
tome. She sent me, however, a little bunch of flowers 
—a common present among young folks, here—and 
before them, as before a shrine, I have been sitting, 
solus, for the past two days, at the office... . You 


64 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


know, I never cared a great deal for flowers. In hum- 
ble coincidence with, if not in imitation of, a better 
man, I always prefer trees, vastly, to flowers. But, 
as I have been sitting here, hour after hour, I vow, sir, 
a strange affection has sprung up in me for them. I 
find the word applied to them sometimes in poetry, 
‘breathing ’ fragrance, etc., ete., is a true one. They 
seem to pulse delicate gusts of perfume, that fleet over 
my nerves, making them thrill with sweet pleasure. 
These little currents of scent are never mixed in the 
same proportions. Sometimes, it is the rose that colors 
all; anon, that delicious breath of the lily’s waxen lips 
is predominant; and, again, from the bouquet before 
me, there is a sweeter than either—a plainer odor, of 
green leaves, dashed with the shadow of a scent from 
some little meadow-flower, that brings the blood into 
my face, it speaks so plainly of some forgotten glory 
in the past. . . . When I wrote you before, I wrote 
nothing but what was true atthe time. I did not write 
for the future, but for the present,—and so I do now. 
I believe, at the last,—unless a certain presentiment I 
once had,—a strange glimpse into futurity that, for the 
time, carried absolute conviction with it, as if I saw 
what was going to be, with my bodily eyes—unless that 
presentiment, that I am a bachelor booked to the end 
of the chapter, prove true,—I say, I believe, at the 
last, when I do go off, it will be in a perfect unguarded 
hurry. . . . And yet—and yet—LI have an awful notion 
that I am going to meet somebody about whom there 
will be no uncertainty,—upon seeing whom some voice 


will speak in my soul in unmistakable tones, ‘ This is 
she.’ 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


BuFFALO, August 5, 1859. 


. . . 1 do admire and love Maud Muller ; she has 
long been a favorite. I agree with you, too, that the 
moral tacked on to the end would easily break off, if 


— 








FIRST YEARS IN BUFFALO. 65 


the whole thing were cracked like a whip, and no loss 
would be sustained, either. Tennyson grows more and 
more into my blood. I can’t help it; he is the man 
forme. I have just read his new book, /dyls of the 
King,—four stories in the style of Morte d Arthur, 
on the same general subject, viz.: King Arthur and 
his Knights,—all full of the same wild, tender ro- 
mance... . 

I went to the theater the other night, for the first 
time in my life, and saw Hamlet. The actor was 
Barry Sullivan, the greatest British tragedian now 
living. Everything else, the other actors, the audience 
—all disgusted me; but that one man—lI was fairly 
riveted, eyes and ears, to him. From the first moment 
he stepped on the stage you saw Shakspere’s Prince. 
I could not help thinking that Shakspere must have 
studied Aim, instead of its being the other way. I 
remembered all you said, once, about the depth and 
mystery of the play, and realized it for the first time. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


BUFFALO, August 18, 1859. 


I am infinitely weary of the city, its business, its 
clatter—all, to-day. It seems as if I would almost 
sell my birthright to be out of it for a day, away in 
the impenetrable stillness of some darkened valley,— 
yea, or even away out, sitting at some quiet roadside, 
beside a dyke, where the bees come, where tansy grows, 
where there is the city with its accursed ways behind, 
and unlimited scope for wandering on and on, before. 

The perfection of business habits and ability is to 
create, of the man you are dealing with, the complete 
ideal of a thief, and then guard and prepare for him 
at every point. If you trust anything to his honesty, 
you are soft and unbusiness-like ; and, ten to one, you 
are also ‘done brown.’ ‘This, disgusting at first, grows 
funny after awhile, and, finally, intensely wearisome. 

5 


66 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


I am living in hope of being a pilgrim in some of the 
countries of the old world before this time next year. 
A regular foot-tramp, I propose making. Would n’t 
you like to go along? 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BuFFALO, October 31, 1859. 


. . . L feel a perfect fire in my bones to travel, and 
have determined, by hook or crook [to carry out the 
scheme]. My plan is purposely left very undefined. 
I intend to travel in Europe, on foot, in the cheapest 
and humblest manner, and begin by wandering in 
Spain, crossing the Atlantic to Gibralter. As a cir- 
cumstance which may assist me some, financially as 
well as otherwise, I have an arrangement made by 
which I shall write letters for the Vew York Times. 
Now you know all about it. 








(ek bo RD... 
APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 1859-1865. 


SOMETIME during the summer of 1859, David en- 
tered, rather curiously, into a connection with the 
Buffalo Daily Courier which was decisive of his voca- 


tion in life. Rather curiously, because it was the work 


of a commercial reporter—a reporter of the local mar- 
kets—that he was first engaged to do. He was em- 
ployed that year as a clerk in the office of his uncle’s 
firm, Messrs. Kennedy, Gray & Co., and his time 
was not fully occupied. Their office was on Central 
Wharf,—the mart in those days of nearly all the 
greater commerce of Buffalo. These circumstances 
were favorable for his using a few hours of every day 
in gathering notes of the market, and there happened 
to be a want of that service at the publishing-house of 
the Courier. So, it came about, oddly enough, that the 
most uncommercial young man in Buffalo (it is hardly 
too much to say so) was engaged for several months in 
counting the pulses of the produce-exchange, and _ re- 
cording them in the jargon of a newspaper commercial — 
reporter. But this arrangement was undoubtedly made 
with the understanding, on both sides, that it should 
lead to something else, and with a distinct perception 
on the part of the editor and chief proprietor of the 
Courier, the late Joseph Warren, that he had enlisted 


68 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


a pen which he could not afford to waste, very long, ¢ on 
the writing of market reports. 

As a matter.of fact, the market work seems to have 
come to an end before the close of the year, and David 
had quitted the mill-office to make a complete plunge 
into journalism, as associate editor of the Courier, 
having charge of its city department, especially, but 
prepared for a service of general utility, according to 
the demands of the day and of the press. The provin- 
cial newspapers of that time had nothing of the ‘ staff’ 
that is busy about them at the present day. A chief 
editor and his associate, with a reporter of markets, — 
were quite commonly the entire editorial corps. A 
news-reporter, as a distinctly added functionary, had 
not yet made his appearance among the few servitors 
of the press in Buffalo,—though the date of his advent 
was not much later than the time here referred to. 
The journalism of the city was in that primitive stage 
when David Gray entered it. Then, and several years 
afterwards, the large, strong figure of Joseph Warren 
was often to be seen on the platform at public meet- 
ings, taking notes of speeches for next day’s print. 
He shared that kind of labor with his younger assist- 
ant, and claimed from the latter more or less of aid in 
the leader-writing and paragraphing of the editorial 
page. The two were colleagues, to a considerable ex- 
tent, in all departments of the newspaper work; and 
much the same arrangement prevailed in the ‘ staff’ of 
the other city journals. Those were days of hard work 
in Buffalo journalism, and, generally speaking, of good 
work. There was an all-round capability demanded 
and exercised, which the present specializing of tasks 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 69 


is not so well calculated to produce. The newspapers 
gave less to their readers than they now do; but pos- 
sibly the readers may have suffered no loss. It is cer- 
tain that much news was neglected advantageously,— 
with great conservatism of dignity to the newspapers, 
themselves, and with a benevolent sparing of those 
who read them. 

Gray’s introduction to journalism, therefore, was 
one which opened all its fields to him at the outset— 
except the political field. It is not likely. that he had 
aught to do or say in connection with the polities of 
the paper, for a long time after joining it. There is 
no touch of his pen in any of its political writing,— 
and his touch was always unmistakable. He cared 
nothing, at that period, about politics,—knew nothing 
about political questions,—-except as concerned the one 
intolerable thing, Slavery, about which his feelings 
were very strong. He was an Abolitionist, of the 
radical school of Garrison and Phillips. He con- 
demned both political parties of the day, alike, scorn- 
ing the assent to existing slavery which Republicans 
conceded, as much as he abhorred the friendlier atti- 
tude of Democrats towards it. Hence, he could not 
have assumed political relations with any partisan 
newspaper ; but, being alien to both sides, could un- 
dertake the neutral and peaceable labors of journalism 
under either flag. The Courier was then, as it is now, 
a pronounced organ of the Democratic party, and 
David Gray came ultimately to agreement with it, and 
with its party, in political views; but that was not 
until after the slavery question had been burned out 
of American politics. 


70 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


The exact time at which David became -associated 
with Mr. Warren, in the Cowrier, is not known; but 
it seems to have been near the close of the year 1859. 
It is certain that he wrote the Christmas article that 
year, and there is no recognizable mark of his pen at 
an earlier date. Nobody who knew his work can 
doubt that he wrote such passages as these: 


For one night and day in the year, we feel disposed 
to quarrel with the reverend shades of our Puritan 
grandsires, and to look with loving leniency on that 
other faith which has given us Christmas. ... Nor 
would we undertake a chronological argument with 
any who might endeavor to prove that the twenty-fifth 
of December was not the day when Bethlehem became 
the center of the world’s desire, and its manger the 
cradle of the world’s hope. The air is vibrant with the 
music of chime and carol; the welkin rings with the 
joyful sound of Christmas bells; and to us, all this is 
none other than the echo of that first wonderful chorus 
sounded over the Judean hills. Passing from year to 
year,—tfrom century to century,—it is the prolongation 
of that new song of humanity, begun by angels. . . . 
Ah! it is not the school-boy, only, who looks forward 
to the day of evergreens, when trees bear such funny 
fruitage of toys and candy, and to the week of weeks 
so snugly tucked in between two holidays, and to all 
the pleasant things which make old Winter’s harsh 
visage soften into the most lovable of faces. Thank 
God that we all, old and young, have these days left 
us! Mammon must close his temple-gates, rusty on 
their hinges with standing open so long, to-day. 


This was, probably, his first work on the paper be- 
yond itemizing and paragraphing, if not actually his 
first writing in its columns. A few days later, on the 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. T1 


5th of January, 1860, he wrote to his friend David 
Taylor: ‘I still hold to my purpose of going to 
Europe next season. Meantime, I have had an oppor- 
tunity to step entirely over from commercial matters 
to the newspaper business, and, at present, I am sitting 
at the editorial desk, where, from day to day, I spread 
my brains on paper. Although the work is. hard, yet 
I like it better than anything I ever got into, and it is 
quite likely this may be the deciding point of my life, 
leading me henceforth into this paper business, for 
good and all.’ 

After two months of added experience, he wrote to 
the same friend, in March: ‘The drudgery of a daily 
paper, writing from morning till night, and far into 
the night, nobody knows who has not tried it. Yet, 
judging from the degree in which I find my inclina- 
tions follow the work of my hands, this profession, 
before any other that I know anything of, is the one 
forme. If so, | am content. ‘“There’s a divinity that 
shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will”; this I 
firmly believe, and I am content in great measure to 
submit, like passive clay in the potter’s hand. Yet, if 
I am not much mistaken, I shall not for a great while 
occupy a subordinate position, in this or anything else. 
It’s a queer, not to say egotistically-appearing thought, 
—but you will understand me when I express it. I 
say I think, frequently, that Iam bound to succeed, 
sometime or other in life.’ 

Of the incidents of his life and of his feeling and 
thinking during that important year, 1860, and the 
succeeding year, we have scanty records. He was 
burdened with much work, and it is probable that he 


C2 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


wrote few letters to his friends. At all events, there 
are few that can now be found. One who looks through 
the files of the Courier may trace his hand, by the 
marks of its fine workmanship; but mostly, from day 
to day, it was employed on very common tasks. Some- 
times it found the subject and the opportunity for a 
bit of vignette-writing, like this (Buffalo Courier, 
March 21, 1860) : 


A FUNERAL SCENE. 


Last Sunday, there were balmy influences afloat in 


the cloudless blue sky; there was a hint of the resur- 
rection of summer, and all beautiful things; there was 
more, we think, to make the heart thrill and yearn, in 
its nameless and indefinable sympathies with nature, 


than a day in the prime of May or the flush of hot — 


July affords. It was a day, last Sunday, with such a 
heaven brooding over it as makes it most difficult for 
us—most trying to the flesh—to reconcile the presence 
of death and shadow with the new-springing life of all 
nature. Those who have read De Quincey, remember 
his theory on this subject. Sunday was surely a day 
when Death ought to have removed himself afar off, to 
the outer boundary of the world. 

But, walking one of the long, European-looking 
streets that stretch through the little Germany of our 
city, we saw what seemed as the dark shadow of the 
day’s light. A funeral came wending its way towards 
the outskirts,—Death riding out, in the glad exuber- 
ance of the afternoon’s sunshine. It carried a little 
child to the church-yard—a little fraulein, perhaps, of 
the poorer class of Germans. The train had no hearse 
—there was but one carriage, followed by several com- 
mon conveyances. The little coffin, soon to lie so lonely 
and so far from home, lay, as yet, on the knees of the 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 73 


father and mother, in the carriage. Z'hey carried the 
child to its burial. The custom may have looked cold 
and uncouth to some. To us, it was full of a beautiful 
propriety. Not yet away from the lap, where it was 
her wont to nestle; not yet removed from the clasping 
affection which death only could break; not yet com- 
pelled,—poor little one !—to journey in darkness and 
solitude, in dreary hearse, to the hillock where she must 
be left alone with God and the angels; not while it 
was possible to feel the pressure of their child’s form, 
did they give her up,—albeit, that gentle burden lay on 
their knees with the coffin’s strange pressure, when, of 
old, it was the yielding feel of soft, warm limbs! So, 
at any rate, whether it were seemly or unseemly, they 
earried the little one to its earth-bed, in Buffalonian 
Germany, last Sunday. 


In early April, he found the advent of kites a matter 
of news which no right-feeling reporter could neglect 
to make note of. The kite, in fact, was one of the 
lasting objects of enthusiasm with him, as his letters 
have indicated to us, already. ‘The kite,’ he wrote, 
‘is a sort of aerial plummet, sunk into the deeps of 
the upper ocean; and we were fain to think, yesterday, 
as we watched them, high and motionless above the 
city, that they had reached, beyond the troubled and 
chilly currents of lower air, a kind of gulf-stream of 
warmer atmosphere, setting in heavily and _ steadily 
from the south.’ And, again: ‘It may be blowing 
cold and cheerless down below, but when you see a kite 
sitting steadily aloft, among the light passing drifts of 
vapor, with the sun upon its face, it is impossible not 
to believe that it has got up to a point where Spring is 
visible, as she comes, scattering blossoms in her path, 
from the sunny, southern side of the world.’ 


T4 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


But, after a few months on the treadmill of the daily 
press, the young journalist had little spirit left for 
themes like these. His busy and tired eye could not 
catch the suggestion of them so easily, and, when it 
did, he found, probably, that the springs of eloquence 
and poetry in his brain were well-nigh dried up. There 
seems to be a time in the experience of almost every 


young newspaper writer,—and the measure of it is pro- 


portioned, pretty nearly, to the original freshness of his 
powers,—when that half-paralysis by sheer drudgery 
is suffered. It fell upon Gray, and there are lone 
months during which the columns that he filled betray 
scarcely a gleam of the characteristic qualities of his. 
writing. 

During the summer of 1860, he made his long-cov- 
eted visit to the old home-scenes in Wisconsin, and to 
the friends there; but it was too short for satisfaction, 
—a mere flashing vision to him. He passed a single 
night with David Taylor—one night, only, to answer 
the longings of four years, and to unpack the hearts 
of the two friends of all that they had laid up for talk. 
Unhappily, there is no report of that memorable fore- 
gathering extant. 

A few months later, David was constrained to make 
a test of himself once more in poetry, and to re-open, 
as it were, the abandoned shafts and chambers of a 
mine which he had nearly persuaded himself to be 
worked out, or to have had no existence. ‘The Young 
Men’s Association of Buffalo,’ the library and lyceum 
society which afterwards named itself more simply 
‘The Buffalo Library,’ was preparing to celebrate its 
twenty-fifth anniversary, with notable commemorative 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. Td 


exercises. David had become an active member of the 
Association, warmly interested in its growing library, 
and he was solicited to write a poem for the occasion. 
He found it hard to consent, but he did so, and the 
result was a poem (printed elsewhere in this volume) 
which gave a real distinction to the event. This was. 
the first of a trilogy of poems which he wrote on dif- 
ferent occasions, as tasks of love, for the Young Men’s 
Association, and they represent the greater part of his. 
poetical productiveness during half-a-dozen years. The 
second of these was read at the annual meeting of the 
Association, February 17, 1862,—the evening of the 
day on which news came of the taking of Fort Donel-. 
son. It was a very noble piece of verse, and one that 
will hold its place among the most finely-inspired poems 
of the war. The third and last was written for the 
celebration (January 10, 1865) of the opening of the 
library in the building, then just purchased and fitted 
for it, which it occupied for the succeeding twenty-two. 
years. This, too, was a glorious war-song, of triumph 
and of wailing,—an ode and an elegy in one. It con- 
tained the story of How the Young Colonel Died, 
which has often been separately printed and is one of 
the best-known of David Gray’s poems. The ‘young 
colonel’ whose memory is embalmed in it was Colonel 
James P. McMahon, of the One Hundred and Sixty- 
fourth Regiment, New York Volunteers, who fell at. 
Cold Harbor. 

Before his first year in journalism closed, David had 
found reason to abandon, definitely, for the time, his 
projected foot-tramp in Spain. His relations with the 
Courier were made so advantageous in promise that it. 


76 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


looked unwise to break or interrupt them. He was 
given the opportunity to purchase one-fourth of the 
establishment and business, on terms that were as 
liberal and favorable as they could be made by his 
generous colleague and friend, Mr. Warren. Writing 
on the subject, October 19, 1860, to another good 
friend, William P. Letchworth (since known as the 
President, for many years, of the New York State 
Board of Charities), while the latter was at his beau- 
tiful country place, ‘Glen Iris,’ near Portage, at the 
middle falls of the Genesee River, he said: 


It is not to be wondered, that we, poor dingy souls, 
here, should think of you, yonder, in your glorious 
seclusion—in your Happy Valley, where the earth runs 
to flowers and the air to rainbows; but that you, in 
‘Glen Iris,’ should patiently and lovingly think of me 
and my affairs, is a marvel only to be explained by the 
fact that you are— William P. Letchworth. Since you 
have done so, I will even make so bold as to pursue 
the theme. Well, then, I may consider myself as 
identified, for some time to come, with the Courier 
establishment,—stereotyped as a Buffalo editor, in fact. 
I had a good deal of time to deliberate before I made 
my choice—a good many talks with my friend Warren. 
. . . I feel that this opening is much better than I had 
any right to expect, and is one, moreover, by which I 
may expect to struggle through to a legitimate inde- 
pendence and a modest position, quicker than most 
young men are privileged to do. Therefore I am 
thankful... . 

Alas, for my ‘ castles in Spain,’-—untenanted, deso- 
late, emptied of light and beauty,—I fear me they will 
be Spanish dust before I, their prince and proprietor, 
may come to occupy! I am painfully conscious that 
one bubble has burst which never can be re-blown: 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. (ie 


We are stronger and are better 
Under manhood’s sterner reign ; 

Yet we feel that something sweet 

Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And it never comes again ! 


Forgive this sophomorical gust of sentiment. Yet,, 
when the poor corpse of that European project gets. 
stretched out before me, I think her worthy of an 
epitaph. 

When shall I get out to Portage? That is a ques- 
tion I often ask D. G. Not now, not now Cf you 
comprehend the emphasis ), seems the inevitable answer. 
I think of Thanksgiving, and two or three more of the 
antique ‘ Nameless’ with me, in ‘Glen Iris,’ what time 
the trees are skeletons and the torrents awful in their 
giant nakedness. If that were to coincide exactly with 
your plans, perhaps it might be carried out; but it is. 
only a perhaps. As for me, I have laid myself on the 
altar!! I’ve got to work and attend to that first. 
Pardon this (as Stillson would say) Aideously big 
sheet of paper. It’s the only piece I could lay my 
hands on when I came home to the wigwam after mid-. 
night, this blessed date. I have read half a novel and 
written this, since then, and it must.now be three A. M..,. 
at least. 


So the yoke of a hard calling was bound finally to. 
his neck. He bore it with little relief and little inci-. 
dent during the troubled first year of the civil war. 
His feelings, that year, were deeply stirred, and none 
born under the flag were bound to the cause of the 
Union by a truer patriotism than his. As the war 
went on, he found much in the conduct of it that made. 
him impatient and critical; much of what he thought. 
to be a criminal carefulness of slavery, and much of 
political intrigue and gross self-seeking ; so that he was. 
alienated even farther than before from the party in. 


78 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


power. But his allegiance to the great cause at stake 
—the cause of the American Union and of the prin- 
ciples of self-government and freedom bound up in it 
—raised his mind above considerations of party. 

His first considerable respite from the grinding 
labors of the daily press came in February, 1862, when 
he made a trip to Cuba, which was one of the delight- 
ful passages of his life. His companion in the excur- 
sion was Mr. Henry A. Richmond, whose acquaintance 
he had recently made, and who was counted from that 
time, for life, among the, nearest of all his friends. 
A few passages from the letters which he wrote to the 
Courier while on this brief ‘outing’ deserve to be 
quoted : 


In THE Bay oF Havana, Feb. 25, 1862. 


. . . On the afternoon of the twentieth, this good 
ship (all voyaging letter-writers’ ships are ‘ good’) 
steamed down the bay, past gloomy Fort Lafayette, 
and into the open Atlantic. It is a grand sensation 
for one whose stomach, like your correspondent’s, defies 
the sea-fiend,—this being rushed, by steam, away into 
the embrace of old Ocean. A fresh, bracing breeze, 
and a sea which had the long-remembered rapture in 
its motion, waited outside Sandy Hook to welcome us. 
Who that has been for years away from the salt sea 
air, which was native to him, once, could choose but 
give, with all his soul, the cordial greeting back? .. . 
All the inevitable cases of sea-sickness were observable : 
The malignant type, as illustrated in those who capitu- 
lated immediately after the first dinner, and were not 
afterwards seen, but abode down-stairs, like spirits in 
purgatory, dolefully bewailing their state, till, perhaps, 
the last day of the voyage, when they were laid like 
wet rags on the deck, limp and bleached,—their cheeks 


cerca cet a ii ti ei i 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. T9 


the color of the pickled oysters they abhorred. Type 
No. 2, as shown in those who struggled valiantly with 
the demon, alternately victors and vanquished. They 
had a way of quitting the table abruptly, without being 
excused ; and, indeed, for the most part, they were fed 
atmospherically, the odor of dinner escaping from the 
cook’s caboose having a very satisfying effect on their 
stomachs. A still milder variety of the malady haunted 
a portion of the passengers. Like my friend, X. Y. Z., 
they were given to fits of abstraction, but were ready 
at all times to prove that they were not by any means 
sea-sick. . .. 

We had one or two celebrities on board. Mr. Rarey, 
whose exhibitions [in the taming of horses] at Buffalo 
are well remembered, was the first face I identified on 
deck. His nephew, Mr. Fairrington, the successful 
professor of Mr. R.’s science, was also with us... . 

So, we wended our way, the perfect circle of the 
sea-horizon moving with us as we went, under skies of 
the softest azure by day, and of deep, starry violet by 
night. The blight of secession has fallen, also, upon 
the sea; for there were no passers-by on that once busy 
highway of ocean. We were out of sight of land, but 
still near enough to fancy, in the lulls of wind and sea, 
that we heard the thunder of battle along the coast, so 
strangely and suddenly become that of an enemy’s 
country. On Sunday afternoon, we seemed to pass 
through a grand archway of cloud into the realm of 
perpetual summer. That night, standing on deck, with 
the luxurious wind sweeping upon us from the land, 
and the long wake of the vessel stretching behind us, 
a trail of phosphorescent silver, I could distinctly per- 
ceive odors of the tropical vegetation which gave the 
name of Florida to the coast. The breath of strange 
fruits and flowers, lifted from some land of gardens in 
the west, filled all the air and made it rife with dreams 
and fantasy. Next day—yesterday—at daylight, we 
came alongside the shore, and, till night, when the reefs 


80 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


of Cape Florida sank into the sea, we kept close com- 
pany with the long, singular shore of Florida. It 
seemed to be a low, wild, barren ridge of sand, in which 
only the stunted mangrove has a precarious footing. 
But twice in the whole length of the peninsula was 
there a sign of human habitation visible,—nothing but 
the desolate monotony of the ridges, and the mangrove 
foliage. A glass revealed, in the distance, beyond, 
flocks of wild fowl darkening the air, far over the 
eternal solitudes of the everglades. 

Early this morning, we were steering away from the 
continent—across the Gulf Stream, which sweeps out- 
ward, with the warmth and balm of the tropics in its 
current,—and away toward the islands of the Gulf,— 
the Hesperides of the older world. Blue and bluer 
grew the water, till the ship’s wheels seemed ploughing 
a channel through deeps of darkest indigo. A soft 
and silent dream of rain, in which the morning had 
been wrapped, melted into softer sunshine, and, at last, 
suddenly, above the sea-line of the south, a visionary 
range of high, precipitous mountains formed itself out 
of the hazy distance, and a shout from a group of 
eager, homesick Creoles drew our eyes to their first 
sight of Cuba, the Beautiful. 


HAVANA, March 6, 1862. 


. . . It was a veritable sensation, to- move slowly up 
the magnificent Bay of Havana, in which the flags of 
a dozen nations languidly floated above a forest of 
shipping. A despicable little secession schooner entered 
before us, just in time to escape our guns. She had 
run the blockade, with a few bales of cotton, and slunk 
up the bay with her rag drooping astern like the tail 
of a scolded cur. Then, the landing, the custom-house, 
and the first glimpse of an Havana street. What a 
population, to be sure! Spaniards, Creoles or Cubans, 
Chinamen or Coolies, and the all-pervading negro, 
jostle each other in every street of the city. One of 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 81 


the latter, riding postillion-fashion in front of a volante, 
‘snakes’ us from the wharf, and, before we are done 
wondering at the funny vehicle in which we dangle, 
with its motive power half a block ahead of us, 
Havana stores and houses are passing in rapid pano- 
rama, and, in a few minutes, our stock of interjections 
is exhausted. Through streets fifteen or twenty feet 
wide, with sidewalks which amount to a prohibition of 
erinoline,—under one of the antique gateways of the 
eity wall, at which a guard of soldiers stands sentinel, 
—and we are at the hotel. 

Havana is built of white stone and whiter HUE 1s 
one story high, has tiled roofs, no steeples, three or 
four plazas or squares, any quantity of paseos or drives, 
very beautiful, and 180,000 inhabitants. Besides these, 
first to be mentioned, are its forts. The Spanish gov- 
ernment, in its proclamations, addresses Cuba as ‘ siem- 
pre fiel, the ever-faithful ; but Cuba is watched, never- 
theless, with the carefulness of a cat keeping vigil over 
a lame mouse. An army of Spaniards on the island 
and a navy on its shores eat up one-third of the twenty 
to thirty millions of Cuban revenue. These soldiers 
must be employed, and they build forts... . 

Cuba has churches, about in the proportion of one 
to every thirty or forty thousand inhabitants, and the 
supply is vastly in excess of the demand. One of the 
first I saw, a little, quaint old chapel, against the city 
wall, had an inscription on its front, telling that on 
this spot, three centuries and a half ago, mass was 
celebrated for the first time in the new-found hemi- 
sphere. That would be a scene for the historical 
painter. Rembrandt might have wrought that effect 
of chiar-oscuro, where the single primal ray from the 
star that rose in the far east fell and glistened, amid 
the darkness of the west, on the palm-bordered shore 
of Cuba. 

. But there is even more to strike the foreigner 
with a sense of strangeness in the dwellings of the 
6 


82 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Cubans. What would a Buffalo lady think of having 


the front door of her house open plump into the stable ; 


or, worse, to have one side of her parlor occupied by 
the family carriage? The former circumstance is iney- 
itable, the latter occasional, in Havana; and it is the 
boast of some senoritas that their feet never touch the 
soil. They ride out, or do not go out at all. 


MaTANZAS, March 10, 1862. 


... The first week of our stay in Cuba, we saw 
only the city life of the islanders. Nature looked in 
upon us from far-away hills, dotted with the strange 
foliage of palms. The plaza was brilliant with the 
bloom of tropical flowers, gorgeous and large. The 
fruit-stands, with a score of fruits whose very names 
and existence had been unknown to us before; the 
orangemen, with diminutive horses and exaggerated 
panniers, trudging in, dust-begrimed, from the country, 
with magnificent oranges for sale at half-a-cent apiece ; 
Regla, a suburb of the city, with its forty or fifty acres 
of sugar warehouses,—these and a thousand other 
intimations we had of the wealth and wonders we had 
not yet seen. A week ago, we came to this place— 
Matanzas—a city of forty-five thousand inhabitants, 
on the sea-coast, fifty or sixty miles east from Havana. 
Every mile of the road hither, tropical Nature met us 
with new surprises. There were winding streams whose 
courses we marked, far up and down the rich valleys, 
by the tortuous rows of regal palms which stood with 
their white feet washed in the limpid wave. There 
were fields of plantain, or banana, waving in the sun- 
light like young forests. Orange trees, golden with 
their fruit, grew by the houses and way-side as apples 
in New England. Groves of bamboo; avenues of 
palm, stretching away in mathematical straightness, to 
unseen plantations ; waving oceans of sugar-cane, whose 
shores were hills of timber unknown to the axe of the 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 83 


northern woodman,—all these the locomotive, guided 
by American engineers, whirled past, till we arrived at 
Matanzas, built between the two rivers, Yumari and 
San Juan. 

The valley of the former river is celebrated as, per- 
haps, the loveliest spot of Cuba. We saw it, first, 
from the heights of a range of hills overlooking, at 
once, the valley and the ocean. The morning sun was 
breaking through clouds, transmuting the mists of the 
valley to gold, and the dusk of the ocean to brightest 
blue. Perfectly circumvallated by mountains, the radi- 
ant region lay far beneath us, like another Eden, into 
whose lap was gathered the opulence of a continent. 
If some pencil, such as sketched the Heart of the An- 
des, should sometime immortalize itself by a picture, 
here, those who see the copy of nature will agree with 
us that it were idle to attempt to paint in words the 
beauty of the valley of the Yumari. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 

BUFFALO, April 7, 1862. 
You will see by this superscription that I am again 
in ‘ken’d ground,’ and I may add that fifteen additional 
pounds of bone and muscle accompanied me home ;— 
that, in short, I am very well indeed. . . . I got 
here yesterday P. M., after having had forty-seven days 
of the tallest kind of a time. It seems frightful to 
have to sit down to the desk again. Never did I ride 
the winged horse to such an extent before. I have 
come back, not only heavier in flesh, but with my men- 
tal stock in trade largely increased. It certainly paid 
me, richly; but, as I said before, it is awful to go to 

work again. 
TO THE SAME. 

BUFFALO, April 25, 1862. 
. . . It has been very hard work to knuckle down 
to the desk again, after such a jubilant stampede and a 


84 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


rampage of jollity as I have been on; and, what with 
trying to attend to my business and nourish a stupen- 
dous article of the blues at the same time, I have not 
felt much like letter-writing, I assure you. Blues, did 
I say? Why, John, really, as you’re a man of honor, 
did you ever see such splendid weather for the blues as 
we have had? The idea of suicide actually seemed to 
gather about it a halo of comparative cheerfulness, on 
some of these days. Oh, Cuba!—bright skies, palmy 
valleys, balmy airs, dark-eyed, bewitching senoritas, 
rides on the paseos, flirtations by moonlight,—how I 
have yearned after you, as one might yearn after the 
fragments of a golden dream, when he has risen, with 
the thermometer below zero, and the water frozen in 
his pitcher to a boulder! 


The gloomy summer of 1862, after the calamitous 
Seven Days of the Army of the Potomac and its re- 
treat from the Peninsula, brought to Gray, as to many 
others, the feeling that he must not be any more a 
looker-on at the grim battle in the South. He resolved, 
seriously, to join the army, and began to make his prep- 
arations, accordingly ; but was persuaded to abandon 
the patriotic intent by entreaties of his mother, whom 
he loved with an exceeding tenderness. Writing after- 
wards to a friend, he gave this account of his under- 
taking and its frustration : 


I have been for some time past the most unsettled 
wretch in all Christendom, as a brief chronicle of my 
recent career will explain. A few days after 1 wrote 
you, I actually went and obtained a permit to raise a 
company, and, with good backers, started as captain. 
I was comparatively happy, until, after I had begun to 
get things going swimmingly, down came a letter from 
my father and mother, so full of agony and despair 


APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 85 


that I was struck ‘of a heap.’ I went up home to try 
and reason with them; but they were inexorable. It 
seemed that I should have to step over my mother’s 
grave, in the first place. So I just had to back out 
disgracefully. If you had known how I felt, then, you 
would have expected me at Groveport by next train. 
I thought I could not stay another hour in Buffalo. 
But some of my conservative friends got hold of me, 
and I did, and am here, yet, still scribbling editorials 
and, again, the slave of my ‘ prospects.’ 


This was told in a letter, written Sept. 21, 1862, to 
Mr. Charles° W. Fairrington, whom he met, first, on 
the voyage to Havana, and with whom, at that time, he 
entered into relations of warm friendship and intimate 
correspondence, which continued until his death. 

At the period in Gray’s life which has now been 
reached, he was drawn deep into that feverish way of 
living which is called, ‘being in society.’ From the 
moment he entered those whirling circles in which 
acquaintanceship becomes a vocation and gaiety an art, 
he charmed them and was temporarily charmed by 
them. He could so harmonize himself with all places, 
all people, all situations—so put himself on terms 
with everybody— that he helped in a rare way to 
produce the pleasant feeling of social harmony, wher- 
ever he went. His temperament was one of the most 
delightfully sympathetic that ever sweetened human 
intercourse, and his manner was the naive expression 
of a gracious feeling. His courtesy was in his nature, 
—his politeness was one of the gifts with which he 
was born. When he talked with people, all the 
faculties of his genius rallied to make the talk 


86 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


pleasant to them. He never gave the cold-shoulders— 
of conversation to anybody. He met all people as 
though he and they, for the time being, were the only 
inhabitants of the world, and had nothing to interest 
them but their present speech with one another. 
This hospitality of intellectual disposition will make 
even a dull man agreeable. Given to one who had 
humor and imagination, a fine mind and a full one, for 
the service of it, he was made supremely charming as a 
companion for women or men, for young or old, for the 
thoughtful or the gay. It used to be often said among 
his friends, that no one else could say pretty things so 
prettily, nor witty things so wittily, as David Gray. 
But that did not half describe the exquisite quality of 
his conversation. There was no such glitter of bril- 
liancy about it as this characterizing might seem to 
intimate. It was too quiet for that. It shone lumin- 
ously, rather than brilliantly, wath a peculiar glow of 
warm color in it, one would choose to say, if any 
metaphor can be used. 

It was to be expected, therefore, that ‘ society ’—in 
the limited and misappropriated sense of the word— 
would be delighted with Gray when it made his 
acquaintance, and would catch him with a thousand 
hands, to drag him into its unceasing festivities. It 
did so, not only in his own city, but wherever it encoun- 
tered him. And he, for some years, was a yielding 
though unwilling victim to its seductive blandishments, 
There was one side of his nature which enjoyed the 
living for gregarious entertainment immensely. There 
was another and better side which revolted; but the 
revolt had no success for several years, during which he 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 87 


was bitterly in conflict with himself. His more confi- 
dential letters, through that period, reveal a profound 
unhappiness of mind, while, on the surface, he was ap- 
pearing to be intoxicated with the laborious pleasures 
of the world. He felt that he had been false to his 
ideals, unfaithful to his most cherished beliefs. He 
knew that he was living a more than half-wasted life, 
unworthy of his powers and forgetful of his responsi- 
bilities. He was stricken, moreover, with a sense of 
his moral deterioration. ‘The grave principles and the 
simple habits in which he had been reared were both 
being sadly relaxed. Before the stop came, in fact, 
he had slipped down the flowery decline quite too far 
for one of his character, and the horror of that smooth 
sinking was continually in his consciousness. This 
suffices to explain the bitterness of the tone of some of 
the letters which follow: 3 


TO CHARLES W. FAIRRINGTON. 


BUFFALO, September 21, 1862. 


... Write me again of your South American yearn- 
ings. Is it only a day-dream, or is it a proposition? 
Certain it is, 1 must and shall travel; but I am twenty- 
six years old, now, and I feel that I stand at the turn- 
ing-point of my life. I have to choose, whether I shall 
turn a rover, ending up a sort of misanthropic, solitary 
old bachelor, if I live so long, or whether I shall abso- 
lutely refuse to roll,—gather moss, make a nest of 
it, and become a domestic animal... . 

You speak of my having a good influence over you, 
my boy. It cannot be so, I doubt. Never did I, my- 
self, so feel the need of good influences. I am running 
down, morally and intellectually, I think. I have been 
humiliated to despair, to think how utterly the crea- 


88 - BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


ture of circumstances Jam. ... I wake up at times, 
only to see how far down I am, and then to go asleep 
again and slide. In a multitude of counselors there 
is safety; but, among hosts of acquaintances, here, I 
find myself, now, almost without friends. My artist 
boy has gone to this wild war,* the sword I gave him 
slung at his side, and the love Ae had for him, I find, was 
ereater than I knew. Stillson,} also, has plunged in, 
and so with many of my friends. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


~ 


BuFFALO, November —, 1862. 


My Dear and Ever-beloved Old Friend David : 
It is with sensations altogether indescribable that I 
now turn my face to speak to you, after a silence of — 
God knows how long! I should be doing myself injus- 
tice if I came before you with apologies. I have none 
to make. If ever a man has been in the hands of a 
fate, hurrying him on, and controlling his action, so 
that he is left utterly irresponsible for non-compliance 
with the forms and conventionalities of life, that man 
is myself. Why have I not written to you? I scarcely 
know. If you were with me, now, and had an oppor- 
tunity to know me as I am, now, you would not ask. 
Perhaps you will be satisfied on this point before you 
read this letter. 

When your letter, with the old familiar superserip- 
tion, came into my hands, to-day, I dared not open it. 
It lay before me for an hour ; while I busied my hands 
with fifty other duties, my head and heart thought of 
it, alone; and yet I dared not open it. The reason 
was, that I feared this, to me, terrible calamity: that 
you had lost faith in me, and my old friendship. I 


* Charles Caryl Coleman. 

+ Jerome B. Stillson, one of Gray’s early companions in Buffalo, of 
‘The Nameless”; at this period just entering the field as a war cor- 
respondent of the New York World. 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 89 


don’t know, now, whether you have or not, and the 
thought tortures me, as it has often before. ... My 
God! what a strange life I have led since I saw you 
last! How utterly the elements of my being have 
changed! I am almost driven mad when I contem- 
plate myself,—the identity almost obliterated. Yet I 
know that my feeling for you has not changed, and 
never has changed, for an hour. I have thought of 
you every day; but it has seemed as if you belonged to 
some pre-existence, with which communication was 
impossible... . 

I have no ambition, now, as I once had. The fiend 
comes back and haunts me, occasionally, but it is easily 
quieted. All I want, now, is quiet—rest—removal 
from the hurry and turmoil in which I live. Yet, duty 
seems to keep me here, and I live on, gloomy and 
resigned. This last summer I had a plan laid to come 
out again and see you. I meant just to make my way 
straight for your hill, and live there, within the circle 
of woods, where I could sit and see the West, and the 
day die over the river, as in the days of old. I failed; 
but, if I live, another summer will not pass with this 
desire ungratified. 

Poetry, with me, is dead and buried, beyond the 
reach of resurrection. I have not composed a line for 
nearly a year. I rejoice that the same damnable fact 
is not true of you. Zhe Gift, which I publish to-mor- 
row morning, and of which I send you some copies, is 
a proof of that. Davie, you are a poet. ... Why, 
there is more of the genuine, deep, passionate spirit of 
poesy in these lines, than you will find in volumes that 
pass current for poetry, now. ... If J had the inspi- © 
ration that God has given you, I should be the greatest 
poet in America—so ) recognized, in less than two years. 
I used to think that I was to be the chosen instrument, 
the medium by which you would be brought into con- 
tact with the public; but I give that up, now. I have 
been watching, with a sort of passive curiosity, to see 


90 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


whether the poet in you would actually live, and sing, 
and die, utterly unheard. Perhaps it will be so; and, 
if so, then ’tis best so. What is the use of making a 
tempest in this teapot of a world,—of striving to min- 
gle the irreconcilable element of human effort with the 
sublime, eternal elements of fate, or providence, or 
whatever you choose to call it? Submission is wisdom. 
Whither the mighty current tends, I cannot guess; 
but I do know that to stem it is madness, to cross it is 
misery. (God help us! 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
BUFFALO, January 27, 1863. 


Five minutes since, I received at the post-office a let- 
ter draped in the second-mourning drab of the dead- 
letter office, and, opening the envelope with curious 
expectation, I discovered your letter of November 25, 
1862. It and its contents had passed under the seru- 
tiny of the Eye at Washington—wherefore, I know 
not. Have you rebellious tendencies, or have 1? At™ 
any rate, your letter has just arrived, and I read it 
with a strange choking in the gullet. Oh, Davie! out 
of my inward misery I look back to you, through the 
golden picture you hold up to my eyes, and you stand, 
far, far away, associated with all that is dearest in my 
life,—chief in the realm of memory,—one with the 
blessed sinless past that can return nomore! Oh, if I 
could only weep out at my eyes the fever that is in my 
heart,—the restless, throbbing disquietude,—the sink- 
ing, dull pain of regret and remorse that consume me! 
But I am here, foreed to run in the preordained 
grooves, and my only refuge from mental torture is in 
the culture of a damned, sneering, icy indifference. 
Why should a man be thus unhappy; what have I 
done? I have but drifted onward, in obedience to a 
tide that seemed resistless. I did not bring myself 
here; I did not want to come here; I did not make 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. LE 


myself the wretch, sinful and demoralized, that I am. 
Madman or slave, ane man be one?.. 

Let me look, with you, Davie, back to the past of 
which you are still a part. Could we not build it up, 
again,—that temple in ruins, in which we made merry,, . 
in the golden light of poesy and youth! If I came 
back, could we not rebuild it ?—or would I bring my 
eursed Buffalo heart back with me, only to find that 
the vision could never be recalled, and to be more 
wretched in consequence ? 

I propose you a problem, at which you and I shall 
work, as if it had come up for the first time, and did 
not look at us with the gray-browed, ancient, blearing” 
eyes of the Sphinx—oldest of things. Let us seek 
‘how to be happy—how to make the best and most of 
life.” Let us be earnest, candid, free of prejudices 
and educational bias,—as if we entered earth, now, and 
confronted the main question but newly. It may be 
we shall touch the ‘ Fortunate Isles’ and see God, whom. 
we knew in childhood. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
BuFFaLo, February 27, 1863. 


Iam inaugurating an attempt to square myself off 
with one or two of my few correspondents, and, though. 
it is pretty late to begin (2% a. M.), I hope to get out 
a little budget, in the first place, for Detroit. ... Buf- 
falo has had the gayest winter known for a dozen 
years, and I have been in the thickest of it... . If 
you have read the recent Cowrier, you would see that L 
have been in verse, again, a little.* I am also engaged 
to deliver another paper or poem before the Buffalo: 
Historical Society, two weeks from to-day. You will 


* Poem read at the celebration of Washington’s Birthday by the: 
Buffalo Central School. 
+ ‘The Last of the Kah-Kwahs.’ 


‘92 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


see that, when it comes. I have also several invites to 
lecture, which I can’t accept, as I have n’t any lecture. 
I am steadying down to work, again, and hauling off 
as much as possible from the gaieties. I hope to do 
some good business this coming season. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
May 7, 1863. 


. . . How happy a man must be whose work is done 
at six o'clock. Here I am, at two A. M.—and it’s a 
regular thing. Still, | manage to weave in so much 
recreation as is needed for the comfort of the outer 
man, and so keep my health. 


TO HIS MOTHER. 
BUFFALO, August 24, 1863. 


. . . I think of you all, and of your quiet lives, and, 
like the May Queen, am ‘often, often with you when 
you think I’m far away.’ 

John’s visit, by the bye, was a very pleasant episode; 
but it was sadly marred by my lack, at the time, of all 
leisure. . . . He would tell you, doubtless, of how I 
got through the draft, nicely, and was entirely pacific 
in my intentions, even had I been drafted. I feel, 
now, that I have something to work for, and really get 
up quite an appearance of ambition to myself. Every- 
thing in a business way is going very well. It is quite 
wonderful, indeed, that a citizen should be so well off, 
when his country is engaged in a desperate effort to 
cut its own throat... . 

How is the work on the farm? Are harvesting and 
haying well advanced? Does Walter want an extra 
hand? I wonder how I could rake and bind, now, on 
a pinch! But poorly, I suspect. Still, it must be the 
muscle and vitality I acquired in the days of my cap- 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 93. 


tivity which subsist me now. Consequently, I do not. 
regret that part of the past. 

John would, of course, tell you lots of things about 
my way of living, here. He may have given you rather: 
a doleful account of my late hours, hard work, etce.; 
for I noticed he was not prepossessed in favor of the 
newspaper business. You must remember, should this. 
have been the case, that that time was an exceptional 
one ; moreover that the n. b. aforesaid is the only busi- 
ness I am fitted for; that I like it and could like no. 
other, and that I am being tolerably successful in it. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


BuFFALO, November 10, 1863. 


. . . My matters are flourishing as well as I can 
expect. . . . I feel sure, if the country holds together. 
and does not bleed and batter itself to death, that I 
shall work through, all right. Of the country, however, 
Iam by no means sure. It looks to me, now, as if we 
were entered upon a real revolution, which may last 
the life-time of any of us and result, algebraically 
speaking, in X. Such things have been in the world’s. 
history, before, and why not again? Manis not a whit 
a wiser or better animal than he was when Greece and 
Rome, successively, crumbled away in blood. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


BuFFaLo, February —, 1864. 


. . . L have come strangely out of my blues of late,. 
Davie, and am driving ahead, whither I know not, in a 
queer sort of energetic way, with teeth clenched, as it. 
were, and eyes fixed on vacancy. I am growing, and I 
know it. Worse, perhaps,—stronger, I know. Men 
have not power to cast me down, orup.... Out of 
the ashes of what you and I once knew in common,— 


‘94 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


up from the desolate hearth where we fed together 
that strange fire of truest love for poesy,—has sprung 
up, for me, a something which is going to make my 
life. ... The fact is, that old life has become only a 
memory; for long, it was much—very much—more. I 
doubt whether the time has not passed, forever, in 
which I can be thrown back into the phases of feeling 
which were once to me the best. JI am sentimental— 
if that is the word—no longer. I think fancy remains; 
she has a stronger wing than ever, if I am not much 
mistaken. A sort of business-like, practical imagina- 
tion remains, also, if you will allow the contradiction of 
terms. But, long since, the longings, the yearnings, 
the exaltations which filled me when I knew poetry 
first, have died of sheer starvation and hard usage. I 
look back, now, with strange interest, Davie, on our 
common stock of experience; but the interest is prac- 
tical, withal. That was what made me what I am and 
am to be. Can you not see how what I have attempted 
to describe for you is going to come out of that age of 
the happy ideal, and the other age of the miserable 
real, which succeeded it? And you will walk through 
the valley, and emerge from it, too,—oh, friend of my 
heart! Davie, I must and shall try to see you, the 
coming summer. It would be worth gold to us, both, 
to compare notes and try a sounding again, together, 
in the new seas we have got into. It must be done. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
BuFFALO, March 10, 1864. 


. I send you the copy of verses you ask. It was 
published in a little Central Fair pamphlet, from 
which I cut it. Here is also another copy of the 
‘Golden Wedding piece, and of the Ministry of Art, 
which some of you may like to have. These things 
won me lots of good words and, what is worth more, 
served to relight all my old fires of ambition, in that 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 95 


line. It is probable that I shall follow up the verse 
writing. 
TO CHARLES W. FAIRRINGTON. 
BuFFALO, March 10, 1864. 


. . . | have been scribbling a good deal lately,— 
always, however, because I am cornered into it. I 
have no time to work my own fancies into verse. The 
best I can do is to write under pressure of a necessity, 
begotten by some occasion. I send you two or three 
ef my latest. Remember, each one of them was the 
work of the night and day preceding the hour of their 
recitation. Pardon this burst of egotism. It is only 
the foretaste of what you will have to stand if I get 
along-side of you. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
BUFFALO, March 29, 1864. 


Yours of the 25th was, of course, as you may imag- 
ine, read by me with more than ordinary interest. I 
think I may safely congratulate, as I most heartily 
God bless you! ... I hope, by the time I come 
round to see you next summer, I shall stay at the 
Hotel de Gray at Detroit. It will be jolly. I would 
not be precipitate about that, however; for you are 
both young, or else I am deuced old. I can afford to 
wait till there is a clear sky, wherein may soar, serene 
and cloudless, the Moon of Honey. Give A my 
best love. Aside from the folks yonder, over the river, 
who else should have it ? 





TO HIS MOTHER. 
BUFFALO, Apri 17, 1865. 


. . . There is a possibility that I may be in Europe, 
before long. Within a few days, I have had a prop- 
osition made to me by Mr. Fargo* to take his son, 


* The late William G. Fargo, President of the Ainerican Express Co. 


96 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


a lad of nineteen, to Europe, and there travel and 
reside for one, two, or three years, at my discretion. 
My business would be, simply, to direct the boy’s 
studies, and see that he did not get into mischief. 
Mr. F. pays all expenses, handsomely, including tutors. 
for myself, as well as his son, if I want them, and a 
salary, besides... . Mr. Warren offers to take care 
of my interest, here, and, if everything goes on as at 
present, have it all paid for, by the time I come back. 
The chance, you will agree, is a splendid one. It 
would realize what has been my dream for years past, 
and would give me a fair opportunity to test whether 
I have got anything in me worth cultivating, in a lit- 
erary way. I should write and read and study, as 
well as travel, and could choose a residence just in the 
places, of all the world, best adapted for these purposes. 
I have not, by any means, made up my mind that 1 am 
going, yet, and there are many things which may inter- 
fere to prevent; still, I think it probable that the 
thing, wildly unreal as it seems, will become an 
actuality. I want you to write me and tell me what 
you think. Of course, I shall see you before I go, 
which, at the earliest, will be six weeks from now. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


BuFFALO, May &, 1865. 


Your good letter came to-day. I blame myself for 
not having written you before, but my mind has really 
been much distracted. As you will see by my note to 
Isabella, the European idea is nearly wn fait accompli. 
I wish you were going, too; but it may be some consola- 
tion to you, when I say, that I would rather stay here 
and be married, if everything were right for that, than, 
even, go to Europe. But my usual luck pursues me in 
that regard, and I am, apparently, as far from forming 
any matrimonial attachment as I ever was. Conse- 





APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 97 


quently, the next best thing for me is to travel, and fit 
myself for some kind of useful single life. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


DETROIT, May 25, 1865. 

Dear and Unforgotien Friend: I felt the dew in 
my eyes as I re-read your letter, yesterday, coming 
here on the cars; with my face towards you and my 
heart in a very tempest of sad and painful emotion. 
For what you say in reproach, or worse, I blame my- 
self, not you, David; but, with a confidence born of 
our ancient love, I call upon you, as you read this, 
to forget the darksome latter years that have risen 
between us, and think of me, again, as you were wont 
of old. . . . Know thou, oh, brother of my heart and 
soul, that my love for you can never change. Time 
may intervene, space may intervene, and so, for years, 
I become hidden from you; but you are, to me, now 
and ever, what you were once. There are but two 
others on the wide earth to whom, beside yourself, 
{ am kindred. Life has been all a dark, troubled 
dream to me, except as it stands associated with you 
and these. It passes before me, now, all unreal and 
phantasmal, except as to the sorrow and the torture 
of it; and there is left to me, of light and reality, only 
what I owe to you and two others... . 

I have several unfinished letters to you in my desk. 
They were each smitten with the palsy, in the act of 
talking with you. Two years ago, this month, I like- 
wise got out as far as Chicago, on my way to see you. 
I was recalled and prevented. I shall not see you for 
years to come, now. On the seventh of next month I 
sail for Europe, to be gone, probably, three years. 
Every line of Childe Harold that we used to read and 
rant together is burning truth to me now. I leave 
Buffalo under bright external’ auspices, but with a 
heart of gall. 


‘ 


98 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 
Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail or fire or snow ; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go, 


Oh, David! we knew it not then, but those were the 
haleyon and enchanted days and nights! They can 
never return to us any more. I need not tell you that 
my life, for six years past, has been very unhappy. 
Were it not for the dread of something after death,— 
a consciousness that the capacity to be tortured out- 
lasts the grave,—I would gladly, gladly, be under the 
erass, with the one word, ‘ Infelix,’ pointing to my 
place of rest. You, too, have been unhappy. Is it 
not strange? What does it mean? Is Love or Hate 
the god of this wretched earth? ... My faith and 
opinions are all at sea. My conscience is more sensi- 
tive than a whipped back, pickled, and gives me un- 
told agonies. This, alone, I have: I can endure, with 
a face which tells no tales. J have not hope, but some- 
thing which, perhaps, answers the same purpose,—a 
sort of intellectual perception that a change must come, 
before long, and that it cannot be for the worse. . . . 

I was looking, the other day, over some of your old 
pieces, and the conviction came back to me that the 
lyrical element exists in your mind as it does in no 
other mind in America. I think I could sing myself 
happy if I had your gift. I wish I could stir you up 
to try it for yourself. I shall try my hand, again, when 
I get out of this country. I shall, perhaps, be happy 
then, and when I am happy, if only for a minute, my 
ears still fill with unutterable music. 

Here is a photograph which I want you to look at, 
and know that its eyes are the eyes of one who will 
never cease to see you in memory. The gold of per- 
petual sunlight and the silver of moons that were mag- 
ical surround you, in my mind, forever, Davy! 

I have not seen for a long time. He is an 








APPRENTICESHIP IN JOURNALISM. 99 


honest man and a true friend; but I cannot make my- 
self agreeable to everybody, as I once could. Men do 
not interest me, as once, and they discern the fact, and 
I go on my way alone, or among those who are content 
with only the plating of friendship. David, it is my 
opinion there are many more women in the world whom 
aman might love and marry, than men whom a man 
can take as the twin and brother of his heart. As I 
said, I found but you and two others. They know 
you, and, sometime, we shall all meet and see what the 
spiritual kindred means. 

I have to break off here. Good-by, Davy, dear 
friend of my youth. Write, if this reaches you in time 
_ to allow you to answer me before the seventh. I will 
write to you from some nook wherefrom I shall -look 
forth and see the purple of the heather. 


CHAPTER V, 
YEARS OF TRAVEL. 1865-1868. 


WHEN the letters given last, in the preceding chap- 
ter, were written, Gray saw himself near to a happy 
turn in his life, which was reached, as he expected it, 
a few days afterwards. Early in June, 1865, he sailed 
for Liverpool, with the young gentleman who had been 
confided to his care. He left behind him the strain 
and the drudgery of an exhausting profession—the 
fret of bondage to a mode of life which was disappoint- 
ing his best desires. He left them, with a prospect 
before him of years of lingering travel in Europe and 
the farther East, of leisurely observation, of ripening 
study,—of a calm, slow absorption of the art, the his- 
tory, the civilization of the older world. It was a 
promise so beautifully in keeping with the dreams and 
hopes of his life that it could not fail to charm away 
the saddened moods which had grown upon him, and 
to recall the healthier spirits of his youth. The very 
winds of the Atlantic, on his outward voyage, appear 
to have blown the melancholy vapors out of his brain, 
and he landed on the other shore well prepared for the 
best enjoyment of his great opportunity. 

Beginning on ship-board, June 15, 1865, and end- 
ing, likewise, in mid-Atlantic, April 14, 1868, he wrote, 
during his travels, for publication in the Buffalo 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 101 


Courier, a series of letters, fifty-eight in number, 
which will now form the contents of the second volume 
of this memorial collection of his writings. Not many 
who look into that volume will leave the letters unread ; 
probably no one who reads them will ask why they 
_have been reprinted. They are; most of them, from 
ground that has been traveled over and written about 
until the world is tired of it, in books, and yet their 
charm is wholly fresh. They have a quality which is 
quite their own,—a pervading, unobtrusive poetry, 
touched with a humor akin to poetry,—for the delicate 
vein of which it will not be easy to find any just com- 
parison in the literature of travel. 

It is not the intention to repeat at all, in this place, 
the narrative of travel and life that is given in the 
letters referred to. But something will be drawn from 
the private letters which Gray: wrote to his friends, 
while abroad, to trace the movements of his feeling 
and thinking, and to follow the effect upon him of the 
powerful new influences under which he was brought. 


TO WILLIAM P. LETCHWORTH. 


rl 


ON BOARD THE BS. S. ‘ CHINA,’ 
NEAR QUEENSTOWN, June 15, 1865. 


It was a bitter disappointment to me to be obliged 
to leave Buffalo, without having felt the friendly grasp 
of your hand in farewell. ... I wanted to talk to 
you, as to the way in which I might make the very 
most of this European pilgrimage of mine. I tremble 
lest I shall not be able to do the best with such a 
golden opportunity. My general idea is, to absorb as 
much as possible of literary culture, and to settle, if I 
ean, before I come back, the question, whether I am to 


102 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


be justified in making of literature a life. Believe me, 
I shrink from the assumption involved in this inten- 
tion; and yet I will try to do the best I can. If my 
friends have misjudged the character or degree of my 
ability, I shall be sorry—very sorry—but it will not 
have been my fault. . . . I conjure you to keep me in 
your rememberance, and, also, to guard with added jeal- 
ousy, for my sake, the gates of the ‘ Happy Valley.’ 
When I come back, I hope to be worthier of it and 
you, and we shall talk of beautiful things together, yet, 
with the waterfall sounding a symphony for us. 


TO HIS MOTHER. 


ON BOARD THE ‘ CHINA,’ 
In ST. GEORGH’S CHANNEL, June 16, 1865. 


I wrote you, I think, from Boston, and on Monday 
of last week, the day after I sailed, I sent a note, to 
John, ashore at Halifax. Since then, we have been 
steadily pursuing our voyage,—the sea, for the most 
part, having been as calm as a mill-pond.... Of 
course, I do not fail to think, every other minute, now- 
a-days, of the first voyage of us all, across the Atlantic. 
There is much difference, to be sure, between the 
steamer China and the ship Constitution. We are 
lodged comfortably, and fed better than one would be 
at most first-class hotels. The passengers are mostly 
of the kid-glove variety, and everything is arranged 
with reference to the elegant habits of the kid-glove 
animal. Yet, I question whether there are so many 
strong, cheery, brave hearts, crossing for pleasure or 
sentiment, on the China, as there crossed on the Con- 
stitution, to the tune of ‘Cheer, Boys, Cheer,’—the 
emigrant’s song... . It seems very strange to be 
going back, over the track which we traveled sixteen 
years ago, and I can scarcely convince myself that one 
or the other of the experiences—that or the present— 
is not a dream. . 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 103 


My young companion greatly improves upon ac- 
quaintanee, and I have far higher hopes now, than 
before, of doing him and his father a good service. I 
think I have his confidence and respect, fully. 


TO HIS MOTHER. 


LONDON, July 9, 1865. 


. . . You cannot imagine how jolly it is to be abso- 
lute master of one’s movements,—to go or stay just 
wherever taste leads, in this paradise of the student or 
observer. ... My young friend, F , is turning 
out a hundred per cent. better than my most sanguine 
expectation of him foretold. I am really getting fond 
of him, and earnestly ambitious to be of service to 
him. ... As for myself, this experience is just what 
I needed. It has, even now, put more life and energy 
into my mind than I have felt in five years at Buffalo. 
I am sure I shall be richly paid for the time I am 
absent. Hven to have seen London and breathed its 
atmosphere, seems to have given me a mental leverage 
that I never could have obtained at home... . Our 
lodgings are very plain, but pleasant. They are situ- 
ated within a stone’s throw, almost, of the Thames, 
near Waterloo Bridge. 





While at London, David received from his friend, 
Mr. Letchworth, a gift which, then and always, was 
very precious to him. This was Edgar A. Poe’s watch, 
—the watch which the poet had carried for many years 
before his death, and which, preserved by his mother- 
in-law, Mrs. Clemm, at Baltimore, had lately come, 
well authenticated, into Mr. Letchworth’s possession. 
Regarding David Gray as fitly the heir to such a relic 
and memento of the most original genius among Amer- 


104 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


ican poets, he transmitted the watch to him* The fol- 
lowing are passages from a letter which David wrote 
to Mr. L., on meeting Mr. Josiah Letchworth in Lon- 
don and receiving the watch from his hands: 


Lonpon, July 22, 1865. 


. I know that friendship does not, like justice, 
flourish a pair of scales, and I accept and have accepted 
your friendship as one of God’s choice gifts to me. 
And, now, of this, its latest and crowning manifesta- 
tion, I need scarcely say that I receive the treasure 
you commit to me; that it will be sacredly kept and 
guarded, and that the stipulation you make will be 
religiously respected. Furthermore, permit me, though 
it may seem conceited, to say that you have not mis- 
judged, in choosing a repository for this precious relic. 
I do not think Edgar Allen Poe has had a more loving 
and reverent student than, for ten years past, I have 
been. With the first money I ever earned I bought 
his works, and, deep in the Wisconsin backwoods, I 
devoured every word of them, over and over and over, 
and literally lived under the spell of his weird and 
magnificent genius. .. . As I look upon this golden 
souvenir of his brief life, I thrill with a recollection 
of times when the intensity of my sympathy with his 
writings had almost seemed to call his spirit to my 
side, and when I would gladly have spent my years in 
labor to have taken him by the hand and gazed into 
his eyes, but fora moment. When I think of these 
things, and remember, as well, that I have often met 
him (almost alone of the authors I love) in dreams, 
and held dim converse with him, thus, I do not won- 
der much that I am so strangely chosen to keep this 


*Since the death of David Gray, this watch has been given by 
Mrs. Gray (with Mr. Letchworth’s approval) to the Buffalo Library, 
and added to the very valuable and interesting collection of literary 
souvenirs which that institution exhibits. 





\ YEARS OF TRAVEL. =EL0D 


last relic of him. It seems, rather, to be fit and proper 
that you have done as you have. . . 

The effect already produced upon - me by the change 
of continents has been gratifying beyond my most 
sanguine expectations. I am renewing my youth and 
freshness ; my mind has not been so happy and wide 
awake, as it is now, for ten years. I almost hope that 
I am, at last, making up for opportunities lacked or | 
wasted in my past life, and that something like a 
regular process of culture has begun for me. All my 
old ambition, and more than that, seems to have 
revived in me, and, therefore, it is superfluous for me 
to say, that whatever my capacity and these golden 
opportunities, taken as factors in the sum, may be able 
to work out, will be wrought to the last figure. I have 
always told you my incredulity as to the estimate you 
and others place upon my abilities; and I cannot say 
that my faith in this respect has at all increased. But 
this I can assure you, and all others who love me: 
what God has enabled me to do, by His help will be 
done. .. . You know how I was haunted and dogged 
by ‘evil things in robes of sorrow’ while I remained 
in Buffalo. All these have ceased to hound my steps. 
I think the ghosts are laid for good and all. Iam 
very happy, and I want to refine and climax that 
happiness by having you with me, next winter. Is it 
asking too much? 


Leaving London, the day on which the above was 
written, Gray and his companion traveled slowly into 
Scotland and reached Edinburgh at the end of July. 
The long, full letter which he wrote, then, from his 
native city—revisiting it after sixteen years—has been 
liberally quoted from in the first chapter of these 
memoirs (page 6). Before quitting Edinburgh and 
Scotland, where they stayed some weeks, he wrote to 
his partner and friend, Joseph Warren: 


106 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


EDINBURGH, September 1, 1865. 


. . . Leannot quite justify to myself the fact that 
I am here while you are there ; and I tell you gravely, 
although I know full well what I should lose, I would 
start for the Courier office to-morrow if I thought you 
would be less displeased than gratified by the move... . 
I know so well what you have to struggle under, at the 
office, that I am scarcely less unhappy, thinking of 
you. I repeat it in all seriousness,—you have but to 
say half a word, and I am home. I have already 
reaped a vast benefit from my trip, and I would not. 
consider that I had achieved an abortion, coming back 
now. But I want to be guided by you, in my coming 
back as I was in my going out; and I hope you will 
give the subject your best consideration, allowing no 
sort of romantic regard for my interests to swerve you 
unduly, in deciding what is the best practical, matter- 
of-fact course for me to pursue... . 

Except my letters, | have written nothing since I 
came over here; but I venture to hope that, when the 
subject I am trying to think out shall form itself, I 
shall be able to go at it with good heart. The faith 
which you and other good friends so strangely have in 
me almost serves me, instead of the faith in myself 
which I wish I possessed. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 


LONDON, October 5, 1865. 

... You speak of the possibility of my voluntary 
divorcement from its [the Couwrier’s] ancient service. 
For myself, I do not see the slightest chance of that. 
I trust, in the past three or four months I have gained 
a good deal of mental strength and capital; but I 
certainly have not grown greatly in my estimate of 
my own powers. I have contracted, as yet, no higher 
ambition than that of returning to Buffalo, with my 
liabilities in part cleared off, and of settling down to 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 107 


be a first-class editor—if I can ever be that individual. 
I believe that life, with some little modifications, would 
give all the chance for the working out of whatever 
ability may be in me that any other would; and I am 
almost ready, now, to come home and go to work with 
an earnestness I have not felt for years. So, please 
never to think of me except as your traveling asso- 
ciate, who is soon to return, a much more valuable man 
than he went away. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


Paris, November 30, 1865. 


. We have settled down in quiet, comfortable: 
quarters, here, and are intent on getting a little French 
picked up. Devoting ourselves almost exclusively to 
that, we have taken no time for sight-seeing, and I 
have not even gathered material, since I have been 
here, for a letter to the Courier. French comes rather 
toughly; but, I think, in a few weeks more I shall 
have it under the fifth rib. Iam sure I shall be repaid 
for all the labor I am expending, now. We have lots 
of pleasant acquaintances here. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 


Paris, December 7, 1865. 


. I have not found my life in Paris at all pro- 
ductive of newspaper letters. I have been trying hard 
for several weeks to start some natural sort of corre- 
spondence out of it; but thus far in vain. It is like 
this: We came here and settled down in a quiet hotel 
to study French. We have scarcely begun the round 
of sight-seeing, and I am not at all en rapport with 
the sources of Parisian news. What I could write, 
now, would be either of things which everybody knows 
too much already, or of which I do not know enough. 
Therefore, have patience for a little. 


108 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


TO HIS MOTHER. 


Paris, December 20, 1865. 


. . . We have been living for the past six weeks at 
a sort of private hotel, kept by a nice old French 
couple, in which we have a comfortable suite of rooms, 
along with two other young Buffalonians. We break- 
fast, commonly, about noon—all France does—and 
then sally forth to a French lesson; after which, the 
day is spent in sight-seeing, walking about the city, or 
study. Dinner, at table d’héte, comes off at six o’clock, 
when we sit down to a snug little meal of ten courses, 
the table-talk being a lively melange of English, Ger- 
man, French and Spanish. In the evening we go to 
the theater, opera, or some other of the thousand Par- 
isian shows, or spend the time socially, with some one 
of the score or two of American families of our ac- 
quaintance, resident in the city. ... My general 
purpose in staying so long in Paris has been to learn 
something of France and the French language, here, 
at the very center and source of everything French. 
About ten days more will probably finish our Parisian 
experience, for the present, and we will then take up 
our traps and proceed to Rome. I have got a little 
start in French, which will suffice for the exigencies of 
travel, and upon which I hope to build, by and by, a 
tolerable knowledge of the language. 

We are to be met in Rome by Henry Richmond, my 
true and tried friend. With him, we will explore Italy, 
this winter, and, in the spring, it is my purpose to find 
some quiet town or village, in the neighborhood of 
Switzerland, probably, where we will settle down to 
study French and German... . | 

I celebrated my twenty-ninth birthday last month. 
Did you think of it? That makes us all pretty old, 
doesn’t it? I only hope and pray we may be all 
spared to meet, at least once more, in Detroit. As for 


a 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 109: 


me, I am ten years younger in feeling and five in 
appearance than when I left the editorial room. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 
NaPuLeEs, February 4, 1866. 


. . . | wrote a long letter to the Courier from Nice, 
and another from Genoa. I have another one on the. 
stocks, from Naples. The scow is afloat again, and I 
dare-say the water deepens. Be merciful and forgive! 
The fact, simply, was, that I couldn’t write letters from 
Paris in the two months I was there. Imagine the 
consolation administered when I learned, from a letter 
written to me by a friend in Buffalo, that my silence 
was generally attributed among my home acquaintances. 
to the fact that I had fallen into dissipated habits! I 
suppose I allow these things to trouble me more than. 
I ought; but it did make me boil with indignation. I 
would not go aside a step, myself, to put my heel on 
the wicked, cruel lie; but, if it should ever find its way 
where it might work me harm, I think I can rely on. 
you and the true friends I have at home to clear me 
of an utterly baseless charge. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 


FLORENCE, April 15, 1866. 


. Although I am deriving all the benefit I ex- 
pected from Europe, and feel myself expanding and 
strengthening every day, I still yearn to get back to 
the serious business of life, and grudge every moment: 
which may even seem to be devoted to pleasure, merely. 
You may think this is a wondrous change over the 
spirit of my dream; but such as I write the truth is. 
I am, a thousand times a day, thankful for the chance 
I have had, and I value it, perhaps, chiefly because it. 
has lifted me out of the dust and bustle in which I 
was merged, and enabled me to review, long and well, 


110 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


all the outs and ins of my career. Besides all this, I 
know I am fairly shoveling in general information, at 
present, and my old poetic tastes and ambitions are 
Stronger upon me than ever before. I have actually 
written some verse pea and I have even a scheme 
for a long poem (!}) to be worked out the present 
summer. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 
GENEVA, June 21, 1866. 


. We have now been three weeks settled; our 
home is the ‘bosom’ of a very kind, pleasant family, 
on the outskirts of this quiet little city, and we get 
French, and nothing but French, the whole day long. 
Besides that, we are living very cheaply, simply and 
virtuously,—getting up at six in the morning, taking 
walks after tea with madame and going to church 
Sundays, like young Christians, as we are. Altogether, 
we could not have made a better hit; the place is the 
very one I had been wishing for, while doubting the 
probability of finding it. I shall soon be a tolerable 
French scholar, if that will be worth anything to me. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
GENEVA, August 24, 1866. 


. Returning to the pension one evening, about 
five weeks ago, I found a telegram telling me that my 
old and dear friend Stillson had arrived at London 
and was seeking me. <A few days after, he bounced in 
on me, and, for a week, we had a glorious time together, 
here. We went up the lake and among the mountains, 
and fairly revelled in the joy of our meeting, until he 
was forced to leave me. Europe used to be a dream 
with Stillson and me, so hopelessly far away and so 
ravishingly bright that, you may imagine, the joint 
fulfillment of it brought some genuine pleasure. 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 111 


TO COL. JOHN HAY. 
BRUSSELS, November 29, 1866. 


. Can’t you run up, now, and dip your fist with 
us into the moss of Flemish antiquity? I find Bel- 
a exceeding rich in interest, historic and other. 

. Lam reading what I can and writing a little; but 
I feel sadly the want of some mental stimulus. 
Colonel, if you’ll come anywhere and meet me, I'll 
engage we shall do something that shall make the 
age tremble. It is not often that immortality is thus 
thrust upon the young. (‘Circular sent on receipt of 
a dollar in postage stamps.’ ) 


TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW. 
BERLIN, December 30, 1866. 


. The fact is, the life of a traveler is a very 
ordinary and unexciting one, after the first year’s har- 
vest of sensations has been gathered in. I have a gen- 
uine eagerness to see Jerusalem and the Nile; but, 
with these exceptions, all places I have not seen are 
about equally indifferent to me. I shall only visit 
them as I would read books from which to get needed 
information. I take a great deal of interest, just now, 
in European politics, which are in a very attractive 
state at present, as you are doubtless seeing. My lit- 
tle stay in Berlin has been useful, in giving me some 
idea of the character of the people, which has suddenly 
thrown off its disguise and come out as the dominant 
nation of Europe, and which, moreover, is by no 
means yet at the summit of its powers. 


TO HIS SISTER. 
CONSTANTINOPLE, February 16, 1867. 
. . Here I am, with my window looking full out 


on that Bosphorus of which we have all seen pictures 
since our infancy. Do you remember the little framed 


112 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


steel engraving of it, which used to hang somewhere im 
our little parlor, in the Sciennes? I am not sure but 
it is in the house, yet. Well, I recognized every feat- 
ure of the wondrous scene from my memory of that. 
There was the Golden Horn—Seraglio Point—the 
lovely shore of either continent. Look at the little 
picture, again, for me, and fancy me sailing up and 
down in these waters in a Turkish caique. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 


Bryrout, Pebruary 21, 1867. 


The date of this letter will show you how badly my 
plans epistolary have prospered. I have positively had 
no leisure—no leisure unless I stole it from hours 
which, to me, have been the most valuable of my 
life. Bear with me, therefore, and I will try to do 
better. We start, to-day, for Jerusalem, on horseback 
and with tents, by way of Baalbec, Damascus, Caper- 
naum, Nazareth, etc. We have a fine party with us 
and are in splendid trim. In twenty days we shall see 
the Holy City. 


TO HIS PARENTS. 


Beyrrour, March 22, 1867. 


About ten days ago I dropped you a little note, say- 
ing that I was just recovering from an attack of the 
small-pox, my headquarters being, then, Damascus. 
I improve the opportunity of the very first * mail 
for the civilized world since that time to write you, 
again, and dilate fully on affairs personal, being con- 
vinced that your liveliest interest is, by this time, 
awakened there anent. To begin, therefore, away at 
the beginning: You remember, I wrote you a note 
from this very place, about a month and a day ago, 
saying that I was about starting, with a nice party, for 
Jerusalem, by way of Damascus, ete. We left, the 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 118 


day I mailed that note, and, that very day, our chapter 
of mischances began. A terrific storm caught us in the 
afternoon, on Lebanon, and, before we got housed for. 
the night, we were pretty roughly used and our ladies 
rather frightened. The weather continued bad for 
three days, so that our cavalcade could not be started, 
but was forced to cling for shelter to the mud walls of 
the house in the little mountain Arab village which we 
had made in the storm. I got impatient at this wait- 
ing, and, with a Russian gentleman of our party, con- 
ceived the idea of starting in advance, and gaining 
sufficient time on the party to permit us to visit the 
famous Cedars of Solomon, in the mountains. We 
started, accordingly—we two—and threw ourselves 
on the country for lodgings and provisions. Four 
days we lived with the Arabs, in quite a charming 
way, as I will describe to you sometime. The fourth 
day, I, alone, reached the Cedars, the snow being so 
very deep and the climbing so steep that my friend 
was obliged to give it up, half-way. That day was a 
pretty toilsome one, but it was a success, and I got 
back to Baalbee (look up your map) late at night, 
tired but victorious. The next day I started out to 
study the splendid ruins of Baalbec, and I had just 
daylight enough given me in which to doit. Before I 
had quite got through, the blood had begun to congest 
in my head, and my eyes were closed to the faintest ray 
of light. We started on (the party reassembled by 
this time) for Damascus,—I with my eyes guardedly 
bandaged, and suffering intensely from pain in them. 
This pain and total blindness continued, for the three 
days during which we were on the way to Damascus, 
and finally I was led in, like Paul of old, and lodged 
not far from ‘the street called Straight,’ if not quite on 
it. I thought I should be all right when the inflamma- 
tion of my eyes was allayed a bit; but I soon discoy- 
ered that something else was to pay. In short, I was 
obliged to go, in a very few hours, to bed, and that 
8 


114 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


bed I kept for fifteen days. The third day, to my and 
my doctor’s surprise, the small-pox showed itself im 
full blaze. My head and face were one mass of pus- 
tules, and the attack, in fact, was, though short, very 
sharp, indeed. As I told you, I was well cared for. 
My friends stayed by, till I was out of danger, and my 
friend Fargo, from beginning to end, stuck by me like 
a brick, despising danger and- behaving nobly. I 
wanted for nothing,—even away out there in the heart 
of Syria, where an European face is as rare as a Turk’s 
in Detroit, almost. Everybody befriended me, in fact. 
A week ago to-day, I got the doctor’s permission to get 
up, and, once on my legs, my strength and spirits came 
back as rapidly as they had fled, before. Hach day I 
gained. Iwas able to visit all the sights of Damascus, 
—to take long rides in its glorious vicinity,—to appre- 
ciate fully, with eyes both bodily and mental, its world- 
old associations, and, finally, to make the journey thence 
hither. We arrived here yesterday evening, safe and 
sound, having been absent just a month ;—not a long 
time, considering the events crowded into it. I feel 
myself, now, as well as ever, bating, perhaps, just a 
little feebleness of legs and eyes. You will ask, next, 
how has my beauty fared in the visitation? I hasten 
to inform the entire fair sex, that I have come off so 
little the worse that it will not be safe for them to 
calculate on any damage done. I have a few pits on 
the brow, and one or two on the chin, and my nose is 
a leetle mottled. Seriously, I thank God with my 
whole heart for the mercy and goodness He has showed 
me in this unusual providence of His. His ways are 
wise and good. Praise Him with me, all you whom I 
love, and whom I dreamed of in my delirium, and 
prayed for so often, in the long watches of my sick 
nights. 

You may wonder how I caught the disease, especially 
as, if my memory serves me right, I had it slightly 
once before. My theory is, that the virus struck me 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 115 


on board the steamer in which we came from Constan- 
tinople to Smryna, which was swarming with Moslem 
pilgrims, bound for Mecca. They are famous as con- 
ductors of disease, and I have no doubt I owe mine to 
some unfortunate of them. My experience in going 
to the Cedars, of course, precipitated and intensified 
the malady. 

And, now, as to our future movements: It rejoices 
me to say that we are not to be defrauded of our 
journey through the Holy Land to Jerusalem. We 
start to-morrow morning, again, by way of Tyre, Sidon, 
Mt. Carmel, Nazareth, Tiberias, Samaria and Bethel, 
to Jerusalem, and have our old dragoman, who took 
eare of us, before, more like a father than a servant. 
I believe he verily loves me like one of his own boys. 
In ten or twelve days, D. V., we shall be at the Holy 
City, when I shall write you again. Meanwhile, be 
happy as regards me, for this is the crowning part of 
my travels, and I am to be regarded with envy, but 
with no graver sentiment. 


The journey to Jerusalem was made as it had been 
arranged for, and it is certain that David found more 
in it to interest him than in any other part of his 
travels. His note-book gives evidence of the fact, in 
the minuteness and uncommon fullness of the mem- 
oranda which he entered. But he wrote nothing of it 
to the Courier, and there is a singular break at this 
period in his private correspondence. In a later letter 
he attributes the delinquency to days of hard travel 
and sight-seeing and nights of weak eyes. It was 
known, afterwards, to some of his friends, that he had 
planned a book, in which the fruits of his visit to the 
Holy Land would be used; but nothing is known 
definitely of the plan, nor why it was given up. 


116 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


By a passing glance, only, as it were, he saw Egypt 
and the Nile, sailing from Alexandria to Brindisi, and 
arriving in Rome, for a second visit, on the 238d of 
April. At Rome he found his artist friends, Coleman 
and Vedder, with others, and passed some delightful 
days; after which he journeyed northwards, and his 
letters are resumed : © 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 
: VENICE, May 5, 1867. 


. . . [ have been working hard and earnestly of late, 
as often as I have been able to do so, and I am sure I 
have written some better poems than any of mine you 
have yet seen; albeit I begin to see, as I never did 
before, how perfectly mottled with imperfection they 
are, and how altogether puny is my grasp of any 
subject. But, perhaps, in the year that is coming, I 
shall do better, and will bring or send home a little 
‘volume.’ I would like to start with a little v. of 
poems, and, after that, I have several ideas for books 
in mingled prose and verse, which I think would work 
up well. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 
MILAN, ITauy, May —, 1867. 


It is nearly eleven years since the strange and close 
communion of long ago was broken up; it is, at least, 
half-a-dozen since I last saw your face; but, as I read 
your letter over again,—as I look on its familiar hand- 
writing,—it seems to me that I have parted with you 
and lost your figure among the brush of the Wisconsin 
openings, yonder, only a moment since. Oh, this 
mystery of life!—what does it all mean? That we 
were brought together in that strange way; that we 
lived together, as we did, and that we were so divided, 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 117 


—you to remain as a sort of landmark to me of my 
lost years,—I to enter and wander in such a labyrinth 
of circumstances as I have found this world to be! 
Always, when I think of it, David, it appears to me 
that our discovery of each other was an extraordinary 
thing. I have met thousands of men, since, of taste, 
education and all that; but, in the whole lot, never 
have I met but one, except yourself, who has even that 
understanding of poetry which was ours in common,—- 
to speak of nothing more. It is a sort of pastime of 
mine,—a sort of necessity with me, rather,—to seek the 
acquaintance of man after man, as the stream of new 
men sweeps by me, and to sound them, one by one, to 
see if I may not find, some time, even some faint 
repetition of the experience I used to have when we 
were together. It never comes. I doubt if the rest of 
the world contains the material for it. 

I do not discover much change in you, judging from 
your letters. You are a trifle older,—your features 
seem to be a little more fixed and sternly set,—but 
the old look is in them, still. I fear as much could 
not be said of myself. You know my character, the 
weakness of which has permitted me to be, all these 
years, a kind of shuttlecock, batted about from phase 
to phase of change. But that is of little importance, 
as affecting our relations, I think... . If we should 
come together twenty years from now, I know we 
should feel the very same, and fall into the very ways 
of old, saving that now and then we would miss the 
presence of our youth. 

I want to imitate your example and begin by writing 
something about myself; but what to write on that 
subject puzzles me. I feel like saying—Wait a little, 
till the smoke clears away, before you ask to know 
about the battle. I am traveling on a road, Davie, the 
end of which I do not see, yet. I have solved nothing, 
thus far. The Sphinx looks at me implacably, with her 
riddle still unread. Yet, a hope draws me on, that . 


118 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


sometime I will stop groping and suddenly see. As 
for worldly affairs, they give me very little trouble. 
There is no danger of my ever being rich, nor of my 
ever wanting a living, as long as I can work. My 
philosophy stands me perfectly, as far as all such 
questions are concerned. Since I have come abroad, 
traveling through the greater part of Europe and in 
the East, I have had many experiences, that memory 
will amuse herself with, sufficiently, and, on the whole, 
Iam glad I came. But, after all, travel is of little 
use to a man who has any imagination of his own. 
He sees it all, or something perhaps far better, sitting 
in front of the sinking fagots of his hearth, or watch- 
ing the whirl of the snow out of his window. I do not 
know that I have anything more to say about myself. 
I shall be home in about a year from now, and then 
shall try to see you as soon as possible. 

Your two poems are the truest bits of yourself in 
your letters. . . . Send both pieces somewhere. ‘They 
might as well be in print as not: though it makes but 
little difference to you or me, I fancy,—the attainment 
of that dazzling distinction. The days of pee s 
Magazine are long past, aren’t they? 


TO HIS MOTHER. 
Paris, May 24, 1867. 


. We stay here two or three weeks, then say 
good-bye to our friends and move off to some quiet 
home in Germany for the summer. . . . I am not so 
much to be ‘ pitted’ as I was, and never felt so well in 
my life, as now. 


TO HIS BROTHER-IN-LAW. 
Paris, July 3, 1867. 
. This Paris is the worst place I ever saw for a 
letter-writer to be stationed in, or, in fact, for any one 


who would perform any sort of serious business. One’s 
room, more or less elevated towards the seventh heaven, 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 119 


is a locality which one visits, here, only once in the 
twenty-four hours, and that for purely animal pur- 
poses. As soon as sleep is through with, there is 
nothing thought of but to dart down into the great 
eating and drinking, talking and sight-seeing world. 
And the peculiarity of this world in Paris is, that it is 
always glad to see you, always entertaining, always 
exciting, even, and never by any chance a bore. 


TO WILLIAM P. LETCHWORTH. 
GoTHA, July 11, 1867. 


... Ah, Glen Iris! Shall we ever be there together, 
again? And if I should be able, some time, to lay 
down, there, my pilgrim-staff, will we have the youth 
in our hearts which made us so happy, long ago? God 
knows; but the place and the days that belong to it 
seem all to be lifted so far, far away, that I catch my- 
self dreaming of your deeded and titled property as of 
some lost land,—of faery or fancy, or what not. Well, 
that is not bad advice which Longfellow’s psalm sings 
to us, in regard to our duty in the time present; and 
you must not think, because I boo-hoo so easily over 
by-gones, that I have no heart for what lies under my 
hand. On the contrary, | think I can say that my 
European privileges have been most healthily enjoyed 
and profited by. Iam not in the least dlasé, but pre- 
serve as keen an appetite as ever for all that is worth 
seeing and studying. In the past year, I have acquired 
a tolerable mastery of French, have traveled a little in 
ten countries, and have had small-pox. I am now, 
with my friend Fargo, paying vigorous court to Ger- 
man, and I hope to master that and do some reading 
therein before I get home. So you see the dolce far 
niente does not enter largely into my plans. I have 
great literary ambition, too; but the percentage which 
gets accomplished of what I plan is so dismally small 
that I will not say much on that score. Suffice it 


120 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


that, if God has given me anything to say to people, I 
will try and have it decently said before I die. If He 
has n’t, I shall not pretend that He has, but shall rest 
very content. 

At least, I hope to do many things a great deal 
worthier than The Bark of Life, of which your par- 
tiality leads you to speak too warmly. It was so 
thoroughly a forced performance, done to order on a 
given subject (I think I had filled nine or ten iden- 
tical orders before)—that I cannot in conscience help 
you to defend it. . . . As to the last stanza, I think 
the idea I had, regarded the translation from Life to 
Immortality, which we suppose to lie in the future of 
the individual. The Bark,—poor, old hackneyed 
means of conveyance—is conventionally considered as 
individual property, I think, and so I intended to use 
it to the end. But I see how these last lines may 
easily be applied in a general sense; and so they are 
faulty and highflown and vague, as I feel in my 
inmost marrow. 

I would give a great deal to see and read Amanda 
Jones’ book.* If it contains some of her older pieces, 
which I know, it is worth its weight in gold. Except 
Mrs. Browning, I can name no woman, living or dead, 
who has shown such a mastery of poetic expression 
and such a grandeur of poetic conception, as are 
evinced in that piece of Miss Jones’ from the Egyptian 
mythology. It rang in my ears all the while I was in 
Egypt, and there seemed to be something of mysteri- 
ous grandeur about it which made it kin to Cheops 
himself. 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 


GorHa, August 20, 1867. 


. . . Knowing as much as I do, now, about Ger- 
many, I find we are fixed about as well here as we 


* Poems. By Amanda T, Jones. New York: Hurd & Houghton, 
1867. 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 121 


could expect. It is true, my darling idea of getting 
into a family rests unachieved; but, in order to suc- 
ceed there, we would have to go into some large city, 
or place where more English is spoken, where manners 
are not so simple, and where, consequently, tempta- 
tions are more numerous than here. We can live 
cheaply, quietly and studiously, here, if anywhere in 
Germany, and I am content for some months to come. 


TO HIS FATHER. 


GoTHA, September 15, 1867. 


... Lam not doing anything like what I expected 
in the writing line; and, perhaps, my German and a 
pretty fair knowledge of Germany will be all that I 
shall have to show for this six months. The fact is, I 
am a social being, and I do not work well when entirely 
deprived of the stimulus of the right kind of com- 
panionship. Mental solitude, however, is said to be a 
good master in some branches, and, if so, then I shall 
reap some advantage of this period of my European 
life. At all events, we shall remain in Germany till 
perhaps 1st February, and then, ho! for Petersburg. 


TO HIS MOTHER. 


GoTHA, October 7, 1867. 


. . . L cannot describe to you my emotion on read- 
ing of your sickness and your recovery therefrom. 
Somehow, for a month before, I had had a presenti- 
ment of something happening to you, and had had 
times of the deepest anxiety and longing for news. 
Your letter brought at once a fulfillment to my fears 
and an answer to my eager hope. God be thanked 
that you got through it and are up again! For my 
sake, and all our sakes, do take care of yourself; 


1 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


do n’t do anything beyond or even up to your strength, 
if it should never be done,—and be careful not to 
expose yourself in the coming winter. I have all along 
felt an abiding faith that we are all to be spared to 
meet, next year, at home, and that faith or feeling has. 
sustained me in a good many hours of loneliness. The 
longer I stay away, and the nearer the period of our 
reunion approaches, the more my heart yearns towards 
Detroit, and, above all things, my dearest mother, 
towards you. I often think, and in my deepest heart 
realize, that if you should be taken away from earth I 
should have nothing left to live for. This may seem 
strong language from one who has done so little to 
testify his filial love; but it is strictly true and a 
faithful picture of my constant feeling, nevertheless. 
. . . In the wide world, there is no spot which has a 
special attraction for me other than that where you 
are. So, you see, you have a deal to live for and much 
reason to take care of yourself; for I know that each 
one of your children feels just as Ido... . 

We live in a very simple community, where there is 
as much gossip retailed as in any village I ever saw, 
and in which die Amerikaner make somewhat of a 
sensation, being courted sedulously by some mothers 
with marriageable daughters, and held in awful dread 
by others. Upon the whole, I am getting a little tired 
of the monotony of the thing, and shall be glad to get 
on the tramp again. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


GoTHA, October 23, 1867. 


: I cannot explain the reason, but it is a fact, 
that I need to be in a certain rare mood, in order to 
write you. When I am in my normal condition, the 
utterance of my thoughts on paper does not seem to 
be the thing to send you, at all. The world I have so 





a 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 125 


long lived in is one you could have little patience or 
sympathy with, and it would appear that a certain 
amount of cleansing from it is requisite, before I can 
present myself and be recognizable before you. To-day,. 
a peculiar atmosphere bathes the many-colored trees. 
lt is the October you love, and loved to paint long ago,. 
and I feel my way to you more easily through its hazy 
air than usual. I wild write to you. 

To show you that I am as much of a fool as ever,. 
I am going to copy various fragments of verse which 
have lately effused from my sodden brain.* My sober 
opinion, at the solemn age of 31, Davie, is that both 
you and I escaped being poets by less than a hair’s 
breadth. <A single drop of this chemical or that, more 
or less,—an atom added on this side or subtracted on 
that,—and the mass would have been inflammable and 
blazed in sacred fire. As it is, it is something to have 
a little of the poet’s nature, if not of his faculty... . 
It is strange, Davie, what a long, incurable, chronic 
ailment is this one of poetry; for disease it certainly 
is,—inasmuch as no man in an entirely healthy state 
thinks of writing verses. It has disappeared in me, 
sometimes, for nearly a year at a stretch, but invari- 
ably breaks out again. I have no doubt your experi- 
ence is the same. 

Enough of poetry,—perhaps I will never speak of it 
again; and now to practical matters. J have no news 
of myself to tell you. [ am much the same as I have 
been, any time within five years; moodier, perhaps,— 
for the hypochondria I inherit from my father grows 
upon me, steadily. Its attacks are longer and more: 
violent, and the reaction proportionally slower and of 
briefer duration. 


* The poems copied were the sonnet entitled, ‘The Half-world’s 
Width Divides Us,’ ‘On Lebanon,’ and ‘The Soul’s Failure,’ all of 
which are printed elsewhere in this volume. 


124 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


TO CHARLES W. FAIRRINGTON. 


GotHa, November 5, 1867. 


T saw the announcement of Rarey’s death* in 
a Dutch paper in Rotterdam. How it stunned and 
shocked me, and how strangely it struck me, when I 
read in your letter that my message was the last he 
ever read. And our day is coming, too, surely, surely. 
Ah! I cannot bear to think of it. It seems as if we 
must be made exceptions to the pitiless general rule. 
But we will not be. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


GotTHa, November 6, 1867. 


. . We have made some good, kind friends, here, 
in Gotha, whom I shall be sorry to leave, and who will 
be sorry to have me leave; but, apart from these few, 
there is nothing here I shall not be glad to get away 
from. One advantage the place has had for us,—it 
has been sheerly impossible to speak English in it. 
Since Bayard Taylor left, I have scarcely exchanged 
an English word with anyone except Fargo. I got 
pretty well acquainted with Bayard, here. ... He is 
a very clever and remarkably well-informed man. 


TO DAVID TAYLOR. 


St. PETERSBURG, December 28, 1867. 


Your letter reached me to-day, and made all my soul 
glow with divine warmth. I rushed with it, the first 
instant I could, under cover, and read it, to the amaze- 
ment of a huge Russian official, in one of the museums 
where Russia has piled up specimens of her subterra- 
nean and other natural treasures. You remember one. 
of the wonders of our boyhood,—the story of that 
huge corpse of a mammoth, found by a Tungusian 


* John S. Rarey. 





YEARS OF TRAVEL. 125. 


fisherman on the shores of the White Sea, to the bones. 
of which the frozen flesh, with antediluvian hair 
thereon, still clung in masses. It was in the shadow 
of that identical monster that I devoured your epistle. 

. Let me tell you, in the first place, that it pleases. 
me amazingly to find you still so warm on the subject. 
of our long-ago life and experiences. I believe that, 
to this day, I am softer on that point than on any 
other. I often spend hours in aimless wandering: 
through that portion of my past life, and emerge, 
dazed and wondering what it all has meant, but, 
withal, soothed, if not happy, from the exercise. I 
fully agree with you, that our mutual intercourse in 
those few years was the crisis,—the deciding circum-. 
stance of both our lives. As for myself, I thought, 
once, I had outlived the influence of it, or nearly so; 
but, no! I have only been going round in a circle, and 
I verily believe we are liker to each other to-day than 
ever before. . . . You have remained in your isolation 
and solitude, while I have nearly boxed the compass. 
of human sights and experiences. It is rather queer, 
therefore, that we should stand, to-day, after all these 
years of separation, on, as near as may be, the identical 
point of space in the realm of mortal feeling and 
speculation. ... 

Ink is weak and paper is vain, when a man wants to. 
empty his soul of the whirlwind which inhabits him. 
I would like to have one long summer-night session 
with you. We would start from the river-side, about 
gloaming, and sit a half-hour on every fence, as we 
came up. By that means, the moon would be large 
and white ere we reached the weird swamp, where the 
mist used to meet us and the tamaracks were wont to. 
whisper and shudder as they listened. Passing the 
Peutherer shanty (is it haunted ?—it ought to be; for 
was ever a cleaner bit of domestic tragedy than it 
knew, enacted ? )—passing that, I say, we would mount, 
the knoll and look down into those round basins of’ 


126 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


mist, which I see often in my dreams; and then we 
would go back, again, I think, by Davie Mair’s fence; 
and the marsh is about the best place for us,—there, 
accordingly, we would seat ourselves and have it out. 
Oh, unutterable mystery of life! No man can help us 
to unriddle it; and, yet, there is consolation in the act 
of confronting it,in company with one who also knows 
that it is. I hope, once again, at least, to have that 
consolation; and,—who knows ?—perhaps, when we 
meet again, one or other will have made a discovery, 
and will know something. . 


TO JOSEPH WARREN. 
ViENNA, February 16, 1868. 


. I am satisfied to come home, albeit Spain 
‘grieveth me sore and plucketh me by the beard in an 
exasperating wise. I am content, I say, as I ought to 
be, if I have a conscience. I feel that I am coming 
home, if I say it myself, well paid for my three years. 
My mind is rich; my character has settled into some- 
thing like symmetrical shape; my views on a good 
many things have become clear; I trust, with God’s 
help, to keep the momentum I have got, and lay myself 
now to my work in earnestness, honesty and industry. 
Whether I am going to make a good Democratic editor, 
I cannot say till I get at it... . 

I have had, here, in Vienna, nearly four weeks of 
moneyless waiting for money, and, in that time, thanks 
to the influence, partly, of my glorious friend John 
Hay, I have done much toward putting in order the 
argo I have been, for nearly three years, picking up. 
I have a book begun,—had I had three months 
‘more it would have been finished. When I do finish it, 
I think it will be something out of the usual run... . 

A week or two of my stay here was made pleasant 
by the presence of Gen. McClellan, my hero, and his 
wife, whose acquaintance and friendship I enjoyed im- 
mensely. 


YEARS OF TRAVEL. 127 


TO HIS SISTER. ; 
VIENNA, February 16, 1868. 


Perhaps you will pardon the long delay into which I 
have fallen before answering your good letter, in con- 
sideration of the news I have now to tell you. As our 
good Methodist brethren used to sing, up in the woods, 
so, now, [:—‘I’m on my journey home!’ That is my 
ditty, at last. Yesterday I received the summons 
which turns our faces westward. We go from here, in 
four or five days, to Paris; thence, in two or three 
days, to London; thence, I will run up, if possible, for 
a week in Scotland, and then we sail. And I, oh, I 
am well content to think of this near prospect of tak- 
ing you all to my heart again. To give up Spain,— 
the bonne bouche of all,—grieveth me sore; but the 
compensations are too great for me to think of that. 
Oh, I am glad, glad! ... 

As for myself, I hear always good accounts from 
Buffalo, and affairs there, and I go back feeling strong 
and well-furnished for useful and hard work. You see, 
I did write-some Russian letters. The Palestine busi- 
ness I am keeping for some better purpose; but, before 
that fructifies, I hope to have long spells at yarn-spin- 
ning ‘with you, about all the manifold and strange 
sights and adventures which there and elsewhere me 
befell. I am, on the whole, well satisfied with the 
results already gathered in, of my stay abroad. I feel 
it will probably lengthen and enhance the value of my 
life, inestimably. I have a memory, now, which I would 
not sell for all A. T. Stewart’s gold; and never did I 
feel so spirited and strong as now, in the use of my 
pen. I hope to do something with it, one of these 
days, which will be creditable. 

And now, after all this braggadocia about myself, 
you have to take this wretched apology of a letter as 
an answer to yours. Fact is, I feel too good to do any- 
thing more than tell you the news and shout over it. 


CHAPTER VL 
THe Prime oF Lire. 1868-1882. 


BrEForE the end of April, 1868, Gray was at home, 
in Buffalo, settling himself again to his work, after the 


long fallow-time that he had enjoyed under foreign 


skies. The change which three years of wide travel 
and leisurely study had wrought in him was immense. 
He had been singularly ‘ cultivated’ by his experience, 
in the best sense of the word. It had ripened him in 
character, matured him in powers, perfected him in 
bearing and manners. The old personal charm which 
he possessed, of voice and speech and look, was all pre- 
served, in its naturalness, with something added to it, 
of the grace that comes from a full and assuring knowl- 
edge of the world. He came back, too, with mind and 
body in thorough health, with feelings rejuvenated, 
which ambitions revived, and with a strong desire, often 
expressed, for the hard work which he saw before him. 

He was soon grappling it, and found nothing to dis- 
appoint him in the burden that waited for his shoulders. 
Two months after taking it up, he wrote to his parents 
—June 28, 1868: 


This is really the first hour of leisure I have had 
for some weeks. Mr. Warren has been a good deal 
away, and I have been anxious to get the complete 
run of things in the office. Consequently, I have given 


Ce ee ee eee hit ia 





THE PRIME OF LIFE. 129 


my whole mind to details of business, and have taken, 
temporarily, on my shoulders, much more of a burden 
than I mean permanently to carry. 

You would smile if you knew how far you strike 
from the mark in speaking of worldly ambition and 
the desire of human praise and approbation as heading 
the list of temptations to which I am subject. No 
more of this, at present, however. Suffice it to say, 
that my life abroad seems to have crystallized, as 
regards its results in my character, into an intense 
desire to do my duty, as far as I can see that. ‘ Karn- 
est — honest — industrious:’ — these three words I 
brought home with me, and have inscribed on the 
tablets of my mind. I hope to live them and make 
progress with them toward greater light than I am now 
permitted to enjoy. 


In September, he wrote to his brother-in-law : 


You guess rightly that I am busy these days. Mr. 
Warren has turned so much of a ‘political necessity ’ 
in Albany, Utica and elsewhere, that he scarcely does 
anything in the office, of late, and I am consequently 
conductor and somewhat of brakesman and stoker, too, 
of the daily newspaper train. But I like it, for my 
health is good and my faculties sound; and it seems as 
if a man ought to feel a little flattered when the world 
demands and puts a value on even the moments of his 
time. So I scrub away and keep the blues at a safe 
distance by incessant industry. 


Soon after this was written, David met for the first 
time the lady who became, afterwards, his wife,—Miss 
Martha Guthrie, then residing in New Orleans. They 
were guests, together, for a few days, at ‘ Glen Ivis,’ the 
romantic country-place of Mr. Letchworth, and began 
their acquaintance in the midst.of scenes as lovely as 

9 


130 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


nature and man have ever combined to create. The 
wooing followed quickly on the acquaintance, and 
David’s cup was filled with happiness that autumn, 
even while he toiled the hardest. When the secret of 
his happiness was ripe for disclosure, he wrote to his 
brother : 

BuFFALO, November 27, 1868. 


I think, now, I may speak with a little assurance 
of my plans,—premising, however, that there may be 
alterations made, even at fifty-nine minutes past the 
eleventh hour. Well, then, [ am coming to see you, 
before this old year goes out, God willing. But I am 
going somewhere else, first. Not to put too fine a 
point upon it, I am going to start next Tuesday for 
New Orleans, for the purpose of visiting the young 
person who, in the not far distant future is, if all be 
well, to be Mrs. David Gray. This thing has been 
going on for some time, but, partly because of the 
liability of slips between lip and cup, and partly be- 
cause I would have much preferred to tell you all about 
it by word of mouth, I have refrained from making the 
tender confession. . . . John, congratulate me, my boy. 
Tam a fit subject. Far, far better than I deserve has 
the beneficent Father dealt with me in this thing. 
All my utmost expectations are fulfilled. Iam content 
and happy, as not before in a decade of years. I want 
to leave something to tell, against my coming, and so 
refrain from quite unveiling the mystery. Pardon me 
for this. 


He was married at New Orleans on the 2d of the 
next coming June, and the happiness of life began for 
him, in the serene, domestic phase of it which he had 
coveted most. While the slow-footed days of spring 
were still fretting him with their tardiness, he wrote to 
his father and mother : 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 131 


BUFFALO, April 4, 1869. 


. Lam wearying very much for the 20th of next 
month, when I shall start for the south. I look for- 
ward to the time, not only because of the happy change 
it will bring to my way of life, but for the rest I shall 
have, which I considerably need. I am hoping, now, 
that I will be able to make my marriage a pretext for 
a radical change in my hours of work. If I can only 
shift some of the night work to other shoulders, I shall 
be much better off. Perhaps I will be able to do so. 


He was able, perhaps, to relieve himself, for a time, 
after his marriage, of some part of his wearing editorial 
labors; to diminish a little the long night-watches of 
his responsible post, and to gain a little more leisure 
than he had known before, for the enjoyment of his 
newly founded home. But it cannot have been for 
long. ‘Those who remember the. pretty cottage home 
on Niagara street to which David Gray brought his 
bride, and which she and he made hospitable and de- 
lightful to their friends for a decade of years, remem- 
ber, too, how scanty was the freedom which David, 
himself, had for ‘slippered ease’ in his snug library, 
there. Only one weekly evening he was sure of, for 
his own, and that was the Saturday night. Hence, that 
came to be, ere long, a kind of consecrated and priv- 
ileged night for some of Gray’s long-time friends, 
who grew into the expectation and habit of gathering 
at his cheerful hearth, to spend the final hours of every 
week. During several years, those ‘Saturday nights 
at Gray’s,’ as they came to be called, were seldom inter- 
rupted, and they ranked before everything else among 
the enjoyments of the small number who shared them 


(Ra BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


The prime factor in their delightfulness was Gray, 
himself, with his geniality, his many-sidedness, his 
imaginativeness, his humor, his rich equipment for 
conversation, his exquisite reading. Very often, the 
evening was spent in listening to the great poems of 
the master-singers, as David read them, with pauses 
for comment. His reading was unlike any other which 
those who heard it ever knew. It was a perfect voicing 
of the music of poetry. One had the feeling, while he 
listened, that it gave him the very melody and the very 
tones that were singing in the imagination of the poet, 
when his thoughts caught step with the rhythm of his 
words. Ina letter that has been quoted in a former 
chapter, he called his way of reading poetry a ‘ singing 
of verses,’ and said that he learned it from his old Wis- 
consin friend, David Taylor. But it only suggested 
singing so far as it, brought out, with the wonderful 
effect that it did, the whole melody and musical quality 
of the verse; and, whatever hint of it may have come 
from another, the delicious art of his reading could 
only have been perfected by Gray himself. It needed 
his voice, his face, his manner, his emotional sensitive- 
ness, his quick, sympathetic following of a poet’s 
thought —even Browning’s —through all turns and 
changes, to make David Gray’s reading of poetry the 
exquisite, unique performance it was. Of elocution, 
there was nothing in it that could be taught to anybody. 

But, if our host was first in the pleasure-making of 
those ‘Saturday nights,’ he had a rare auxiliary in 
one of his guests—the one who resembled him, per- 
haps, as little as any, but who was most perfectly com- 
plementary to him in character and genius. This was 


OI 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 138 


Dr. William B. Wright, author of The Brook, and 
Other Poems ; physician by profession, and teacher of 
languages in the State Normal School at Buffalo by 
preference for the avocation that committed him to a 
studious life. Dr. Wright, who had served in the 
Union army until the duty of war was wholly done, 
(he was Major Wright, then), lived so quietly there- 
after, and so entirely within the round of his school 
work, his studies, and the few friendships which suf- 
ficed him, that not many people knew him for what he 
was. But when he died, at the prime of life, in 1880, 
the feeling of his friends was not exaggerated by one 
of them who said: ‘ He was the best and the greatest 
man I ever knew; I have never come in contact with 
another who made on me such an impression of great 
qualities.’ There was, in fact, that effect of greatness 
in the superiority of mind and character which those 
who drew close to him were made to feel, but which 
was veiled to stranger eyes by the beautiful simplicity 
of his nature. A grave, meditative, often silent man, 
but easy and unreserved in talk,—oddly humorous, 
loving homely, expressive phrases and words, and 
always seeming to bring out, as it were, the primitive 
flavors of the language in his conversation! A man of 
perfect honesty, of profoundly reverent but unshrink- 
ing courage in his thinking, with a large-souled toler- 
ance for all faithfulness of belief! A man who fed his 
mind equally on the old philosophies and the new 
sciences, but who found the breath of the life of his 
spirit in the atmosphere of poetry! A man who was 
so impelled to seek, first, after wisdom, and, beyond 
wisdom, righteousness, that no lower ambitions were 


134 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


possible to him! There was perfection of companion- 
ship in the association of this character with that of 
Gray,—the large strength of the one with the fine 
sweetness of the other; and much of the memorable 
delightfulness of the ‘ Saturday nights at Gray’s’ came 
from the meeting of those two, with other bright and 
pleasant company around them. 

But the house on Niagara street was hospitable on 
many nights and days, and to many people. Gray 
found his best enjoyment in agreeable society, and 
opened wide doors to it whenever he could. His 
acquaintance at home and abroad had become large, 
especially among men and women of letters and of art, 
‘and no one in Buffalo, during those years, entertained 
more visitors of distinction than he. 

The period now reached in Gray’s life was one in 
which he devoted his energies and his powers most 
entirely to his newspaper, and permitted himself to do 
almost no writing outside of it. The result of his 
devoted labors was a notable elevation in the character 
and reputation of the Courier. He gave it a standing 
much more independent of partisan relations than is 
often achieved by any party journal, even among those 
of the highest rank. But this eminent success for his 
paper was gained at great cost to himself, as appeared 
a few years later. 

Meantime he wrote little, as has been said, outside 
of the Courier columns. He did prepare a lecture for 
the closing of the winter course of the Young Men’s 
Association, in February, 1871, of which neither the 
manuseript nor any full report appears to have been 
preserved. The better things in literature that he had 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 185 


hoped to do were all put off to an unpromising future. 
He wrote to his brother, in January, 1870: ‘ As for 
the volume you speak of, it will not be forthcoming till 
I possess more of my own time. I want to give some- 
thing better than the fag-ends of days to that.’ But 
nothing better than the ‘fag-ends of days’ ever be- 
longed to him, again, until he had lost the strength to 
use it. 

One poem he wrote, however, in 1872, which is more 
likely, perhaps, than any other that he left us, to have 
a lasting place in literature. It was one entitled Zhe 
Last Council, written for an interesting occasion at 
Glen Iris, when nineteen representatives of the Seneca 
and the Mohawk tribes of Indians, including descend- 
ants of the great chieftains, Red Jacket, Cornplanter 
and Brant, were assembled, on the invitation of Mr. 
Letchworth. They came together to re-open the long- 
abandoned and neglected old Council House of the 
Seneca nation, which Mr. Letchworth had caused to 
be removed from Caneadea to Glen Iris (eighteen miles 
from its original site) and to be carefully re-erected 
and restored for permanent preservation. The event 
was afterwards fully recounted by Gray in a fine his- 
torical article, published with illustrations in Scribner’s 
Monthly of July, 1877. 

Naturally, his correspondence during the years of 
this laborious period was limited, and not much of 
interest or significance can be gleaned from it. Some 
passages, however, have been found that will help to 
carry forward the story of his life. 

August 8, 1870, his first child was born, a son, who 
received his father’s name. Writing to his sister, a 


136 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


few days after, David informed her that, the ‘little 
rascal begins already to emerge from the state of pulp- 
itude and shows the moulding influence of a dawning 
soul within.’ 

Writing November 6, 1870, to his friend, Col. John 
Hay, he touched what was, no doubt, often wistfully in 
his mind—the thought of a field in journalism different 
from that of the political daily newspaper. ‘How I 
wish,’ he exclaimed, ‘ you and I could get hold of some 
good thing together. I think we could infuse new 
blood into any carcass of decent promise; leastways, 
you could, and I could make you do it. But tell me 
what you are doing and thinking about.’ 

A couple of months later—January 14, 1871— 
Col. Hay having joined the staff of the Wew York 


Tribune, Gray wrote to him: 


Ah! my boy; it is my hour of triumph. You are 
now on the treadmill and yow, too, are turned into a 
poor fiend and do not write letters any more. But it 
is a triste victory. I want to hear from you. Almost 
daily I meet happy people who have seen J. H.; but 
what is that tome? I want to get your own affidavit 
that you are alive and occasionally have a thought for 
those who love you well. You are doing splendidly. 
Of course, everybody may tell you that, but none have 
so good means of knowing it and so good a right to 
say itas I. I am not going to dream any more dreams 
for you, or make any more plans. You are well enough 
off as you are, for a while. 


In a letter dated May 19, 1872, to his brother, then 


abroad, traveling in the east, he wrote: 


... As for me, I keep on in the same unvarying 
round of unremitting and exhausting employment. I 


ee 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. rive 


went to Cincinnati and assisted (in the French sense) 
at the nomination of Horace Greeley for President. .. . 
I am much interested in seeing the democratic party 
coming up to the point of supporting him. I fully 
believe that, by this unexpected turn of affairs, there 
will be an opportunity for parties to get out of some 
bad ruts, and that an impulse in the direction of purer 
and better government will be given to the country. 
But what do you care,—pilgrim to the ruined shrines 
of buried empires and civilizations,—for the latest rip- 
ple on the surface of American politics? I change the 
theme. ; 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
BuFFALO, November 3, 1872. 


I write now principally to say that, this long 
and wearisome political campaign having almost closed, 
we are looking forward to the near prospect of seeing 
you all, again... . This past summer and fall have 
been very toilsome and tedious to me, as you may 
imagine, and I rejoice at the prospect of being able to 
emerge a little from party politics, soon. ... I have 
not been so well in three years as I am now, in spite 
of politics. 


TO COL. JOHN HAY. 


BuFFALO, December 15, 1872. 


I think it must be all along of my not writing to you 
_ that the world has been going to rack and ruin in the 
year past. | am going to re-establish communications 
and restore the normal order of things. 

We have seen some curious happenings, since the 
year began, haven’t we? You remember, you and I 
assisted at the féte of Sedan, and now there are the 
Cincinnati convention, the liberal campaign and the 
death of Greeley, added to the roll of strange events. 


138 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


How many times I have wished to talk with you and 
rub my rustic views against your cosmopolitan ones. . . . 

By the way, in last Thursday’s Tribune appeared an 
announcement of a new book of verse, Zhe Brook, and 
Other Poems. That book I have a deep interest in, 


and its author is one of the grandest men and friends | 


I ever saw. When it comes out, read it through, and 
see if it does not contain some grand verse. Your 
critic didn’t quite get the idea of it; for, I think, be- 
neath its surface of ‘woods and waters’ is some of the 
rarest poetic thinking. Look especially at the last two 
parts of The Brook, and at some of the shorter pieces, 
such as oontide, Coquette, ete., and I think you will 
agree with me... . 

What are you doing or contemplating in a literary 
way? Or are you working too hard to think of any- 
thing outside of newspapers? As for me, I am drudg- 
ing away, but hoping also that things may open up, so. 
that I can have a little leisure for better thoughts. 

And now good-night, and let me hear from you, if 
you still are John Hay of Vienna. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


BuFFALO, Apri/ 6, 1873. 


It makes me more ashamed than I can tell to think 
that, since I saw you, four months have passed, in which 
I have not given any of you the scrape of a pen. 
Well, I have pretty good material out of which to 
frame excuses, if I chose to. These have been months 
of hard, constant, absorbing, exhausting work,—work 
which so nearly uses up my vital energies that the 
smallest opportunities for absolute relaxation are per- 
force improved to the utmost. Saturdays, when the 
strain is partially lifted—and Sunday nights, which [ 
always try to spend at home, usually find me even too 
languid and lazy for reading, which I so much need ; 
and writing seems out of the question. But, all the 


~ 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 139° 


more, I think, we keep you all in our minds and talk 
of you, Mattie and I. Then, too, her pen has done 
something to bridge the gap of my silence and keep us 
from altogether slipping out of your minds. Between 
you and me, I should be a pretty poor stick without. . 
her, in many ways. 


Further, in this letter, he gave his brother an account 
of some financial embarrassments that had come upon 
him, in connection with his newspaper interest, and 
remarked upon them: 


Fortunately, my utter lack of business habits and 
disposition has its advantages as well as disadvantages ; 
for, as I fail in carefulness, as to getting into trouble, 
so also I stand the trouble, when it comes, with tolera- 
‘ble equanimity. But, of all this, perhaps, you had 
better say ‘nothing to nobody.’ I shall work out, 
somehow, and be a wiser if a sadder man. The most 
I regret is, the shutting off of the prospect of future 
easier times and the opportunity to do some other work. 
than that of the daily editorial drudge. 


Three months later, in allusion to the same matters,. 
he wrote: ‘I keep up a good heart and have faith that 
I will come out, all right. My life is one that does not 
leave a large margin for leisure; but I try to be con- 
tent and think it is the very thing I need,—the raal 
hat, as Davie Taylor used to say.’ 

In June of that year he wrote one of his last occa- 
sional poems, at the invitation of the Press Association 
of the State of New York. It was read at a meeting 
in Lockport, and the following letter, written soon 
afterwards to his friend, Mr. L. B. Proctor, is inter- 


140 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


esting as a frank expression of the view which the 
writer entertained of his own relations to poetry and 
to journalism. 


BuFFALO, June 19, 1874. 


I have passed through the ordeal,—please let me call 
it that,—of the editorial convention at Lockport. AlI- 
though my poem is not all I could wish it to be, in 
phrase and in thought, yet I feel, after all, a sort of 
‘consciousness, which I venture to express only to you, 
that it was favorably received. The room in which 
the convention was held is very large. As it was 
crowded, I have thought my voice was not sufficiently 
heavy for the room, and audience. I expected, cer- 
tainly, to meet you at the convention, and your absence, 
I confess, affected me somewhat; for, on such occa- 
sions, nothing strengthens me so much, nothing gives 
me so much courage, as the presence of my more inti- 
mate friends. 

As I am a journalist, it was expected my theme 
would relate to my profession; but to bring such a 
subject into the domain of poetry! ‘Aye, there’s the 
rub.’ And, yet, specialists of consummate ripeness and 
culture, in all departments of knowledge, wait upon 
the bidding of journalism. The laureate, with his 
chastened measures; the novelists of both hemispheres ; 
the patient compiler,—even the imperative, sure-sighted 
eritic,—all are bringing their best tribute to journal- 
ism. Why, then, should I not have ‘cudgeled my 
brain’ for a poetic offering to it? For, as I once said 
to you, I am a poet by nature, and a journalist by 
compulsion? Could I have consulted my own taste in 
choosing an occupation, I should have dwelt in those 
regions where poetry is born and nourished and plumes 
itself for its glorious flight. But, perhaps, my wings, 
like those of Icarus, being only fastened to my shoul- 
ders with wax, would have melted as I flew, leaving 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 141 


me to fall, like him, to the ground. I cannot deny the 
fact that, like Thomas Noon Talfourd and Lord Ten- 
derden, I am more proud of my iambics and hexa- 
meters than of any laurels I ever won, or expect to. 
win, in the editorial chair. And yet, by determination,, 
by unremitting toil, I have learned to love journalism. 
Habit, you know, does everything; and, so, I now come 
easily to the task of aiding in the great work of fur-. 
nishing the public that intellectual aliment which, in 
these days, can be found only in newspapers,—to: 
which, every morning, the people come, eager to break 
their mental fast. This brings me to say, that fresh 
and eager minds should alone minister to the news-- 
paper; for there is no other work which consumes 
vitality so fast as carefully executed newspaper com- 
position. With these views, I sat down to write my 
poem on journals and journalism, for the late editorial 
convention. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


BUFFALO, July 15, 1874. 


. . We sail to-morrow evening on the Badger 
State for a trip up the lakes, probably not farther than 
Mackinaw, and return. . I have been off duty now 
for a month, skirmishing about. the country for the 
benefit of my nervous system, which had got a little 
below par, and think that ten days of the lake air will 
put me in good condition. 


After returning from Mackinaw, he made a long- 
promised visit of a week, with his friend, Dr. Wright, 
to the home of the latter’s father, at Campbell Hall, 
Orange County, N. Y., and seems to have been greatly 
the better for it. The visit was repeated a year later, 
- with his family. Monotonous hard work filled the. 


142 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


interval, as it filled the succeeding twelve months 


until he escaped again for a brief vacation,—this time 


-to Block Island, off the New England coast. 


TO DOCTOR WILLIAM B. WRIGHT. 
Biock IsLanpD, R. 1, July 21, 1876. 


We have been islanders, now, just a week, and I can 
‘speak confidently. Never before have I been in any 
place where the facilities were so abundant for making 
the acquaintance of old Ocean. And I find the old 
fellow as interesting as I had: hoped—quite capable of 
making up all defects of society, and what not, from 
which I might otherwise have suffered. Surf-bathing 
every day .. . ; long walks on bare downs, overlook- 
ing the sea, and with its ‘ break, break,’ ever in sight 
and hearing; cod-fishing in a Block Island boat of 
two masts, and with an antique mariner or two to sail 
you and bait your hooks, out on the banks, a half-score 
miles from the island; a run of twenty minutes, after 
tea, up to the top of Beacon Hill, whence the sunset is 
‘seen,—these are the leading events of my life, here. 
And are they not enough? The interstices are filled 
with lazy lounging in the shade and occasional readings 
(piece-meal) of Emerson, Ruskin and Hawthorne. I 
am perfectly reconciled to the routine. The place 
ensures safety, health and enjoyment to the children, 
and I feel so permeated with the spirit of it, and of my 
new life, that I have almost lost recollection of a state 
of hard work and anxiety. My face is as red as the 
‘sunset I gaze on, nightly, and I can run, jump, swim 
and walk like a young savage. 

Of course, I have little hope of tempting you out 
here; but, if it were convenient for you, and you had 
the inclination, you might do worse than to come. . . . 
You would at first think the Island bare and burned 
up; it has no trees and the season has been unusually 


Ee 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 143 


dry and hot;—but in a day or two the ocean would 
embrace you and you would be grandly happy, as I 
am ;—all the more if you choose to use your legs vig- 
orously in tramping, as I do. If you come, bring the 
oldest suit of clothes you ever saw. I dress like a 
gaberlunzie. . . . I shall be here ten days yet, at any 
rate. | 


This brief rest, taken so much to his liking, in the 
lap of the sea, was followed by the strain and labor 
of the presidential canvass of 1876. It was followed, 
too, in the midst of that canvass, by the sudden death 
of Joseph Warren, senior editor of the Courier and 
long-recognized leader of the democratic party in 
Western New York. This death was doubly serious 
to Gray. It deprived him of a friend, towards whom 
his feeling was very warm, and it threw upon him 
responsibilities and duties which were new to his 
experience, uncongenial, in every way, and trying to 
him, beyond any possible description. Succeeding, 
now, to the chief editorship of the Courier, he was 
brought, directly, into those relationships with practi- 
eal politics and with practical politicians which he had 
known and felt only in an indirect way while Mr. 
Warren lived. That he was gravely affected by this 
serious change in -the conditions of his journalistic 
work, is unquestionable. 

But, if the political campaign of 1876 was an 
extremely trying experience to the new chief-editor of 
the Courier, the result of it was the bitterest dis- 
appointment, no doubt, of his life. He had become 
personally acquainted with Mr. Tilden,—even inti- 
mately and confidentially so,—while the latter was 


144 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


Governor of the State of New York, and had acquired 
an enthusiastic regard for him. He looked upon Mr. 
Tilden as one of the wisest of statesmen, one of the 
purest of patriots, one of the most excellent of gentle- 
men. He expected his election to the presidency, and 
anticipated from it a great purification of politics and 
a notable elevation of the character of our adminis- 
trative government. He fully believed, afterwards, 
that Mr. Tilden had been elected, and that he and the 
nation were defrauded, by dishonest manipulations of 
the result in Louisiana and elsewhere. It was a black 
and evil and exasperating outcome, to him,—very hard 
to be submissive to. No doubt he suffered, moreover, 
_ a half-conscious disappointment of personal ambitions 
in the matter, which few people knew of. His relations 
with Mr. Tilden were such that, while it is not probable 
he would have accepted any political office, he was sure 
to have stood among the trusted counselors of the 
president, if the democratic candidate had entered the 
White House. The failure to secure what he believed 
had been won fairly, at the polls, was an immeasurably 
hard blow to him, therefore, in his friendship, in his 
patriotism, and in his personal ambition, as well. 

But he bore it with equanimity, with dignity, with 
the temper of a Christian man. There is no sign of 
passion in his editorial writing during all the discus- 
sions of that threatening crisis. On the contrary, he 
exerted the whole influence of his journal to calm the 
dangerous excitement of the time, and to inspire trust 
in peaceful measures for the settlement of the moment- 
ous dispute. Four days after the election, on the 11th 
of November, he wrote, under the caption Heep Cool : 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. ne RSS 


In these days of excitement and suspense, the Courier 
has no sympathy with those hot-headed people, whether 
democrats or republicans, who indulge in loud talk 
about the terrible things to happen in the case of the 
happening of such and such other things. It is not 
necessary or desirable to have the public feeling any 
more inflamed than it is now. The votes are being 
counted, of a close election, and all the people can do 
is to keep quiet and wait for full returns. We have 
not the slightest doubt of Mr. Tilden’s election, and 
believe that it will soon be triumphantly established. 
But, in any case, the good sense and moderation of 
the people will be equal to any crisis that can possibly 
develop itself. Let us keep cool and good-natured. 
Let nothing be said or done to irritate political oppo- 

nents, or sow the seeds of violence in the popular mind. 
_ Permit no insult or abuse on the part of republicans, or 
republican journals, to disturb democratic self-control 
or poison democratic patriotism. Remember that the 
country is greater than party. This thing will come 
out all right if we only have patience. Justice will 
be done; the right will triumph. Keep cool! 


To bring himself to this pacific temper and this 
spirit of moderation, which he firmly and calmly pre- 
served through all the agitated four months of the 
undetermined electoral count, required, under the cir- 
cumstances, a most admirable subjugation of personal 
feelings, and a thoughtful fidelity to the welfare of the 
country, which are not too common among the con- 
ductors of partisan journals. 

But the strain he was under, during all that trying 
period, from the beginning of the presidential canvass 
of 1876 to the closing of the ‘count’ on the 2d of 
March, 1877,—the unresting labor performed and the 


excitements gone through,—had done him mortal harm. 
10 


146 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


He wrote to his brother in April: ‘I cannot stand so 
much work as I once could.’ Early in July he went 
with his family to Block Island for a few weeks of rest, 
and ended a brief letter, written just before starting, 
with the remark—not a common one with him—‘I 
am tired to death.’ Writing from Block Island to 
Mr. Letchworth, he said: 


Biock ISLAND, R. L., July 14, 1877. 


In my long solitary walks by the ocean, a vision of 
the Glen rises before me. This is good enough as a 
place in which to seek health for the body; but health 
and peace for the spirit are elsewhere, and I don’t 
think I shall find them till I sit amidst the lights and 
airs and sweet scents and sounds of our beloved valley. 
. .. I expect to look down on you in passing home- 
ward again, sometime about the 25th inst. I will 
leave my benediction in the upper air. 


On the 25th, he was still lingering’on the island for 
another week of its tonic air, and wrote to his brother: 
‘I am having a gorgpous time, physically ; am getting 
great good from it.’ 

Early in August, he returned home, sumone ab- 
ruptly by news of the railroad riots then outbreaking, 
at Buffalo and elsewhere; and, not many days after- 
wards, he was smitten with what must have been a 
genuine coup de soleil, though it seemed but a slight 
touch at the time. He thought lightly of the matter, 
after he had recovered a little from the first effects of 
the prostration, and barely mentioned it in a letter to 
his brother, written August 28th: 


I had a little touch—a premonition rather—of a 
sun-stroke, last week, and my head is not feeling first- 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 147 


rate, yet. But, happily, by prompt measures, I was 
able to ward off danger and shall be all right, soon. . 
We have safely accomplished our transportation from 
192 Niagara street to 77 Park Place and enjoy the 
change very much. 


But he had not yet begun to feel the real hurt of 
the stroke that seemed so light. It was a deeper 
wound than he knew, and he had received it at a time 
when his vital energies were seriously impaired. _ Its 
mischievous effects on him were wrought with some 
slowness and in a deceptive way. Going back to his 
work, after a few days of repose, he soon found that 
his strength was waning, and his brain refusing to be 
tasked. Even yet, it was thought that a few weeks of 
quiet would suffice to restore him, and he went away, 
to his favorite resting-place—always open to him—at 
Glen Iris. While there, he wrote the little poem 
* Rest,’ which is believed to be the last that came from 
his pen. 

But, before September ended, his physician and his - 
friends had become convinced that something more 
radical was needed to lift him from his prostration, 
and he crossed the Atlantic, for the benefits of the 
sea-voyage and for such stay in England and Scotland 
as might prove to be good. ‘The journey was a lonely 
one, for his family was necessarily left behind, but it 
gave him renewed strength and life. From the many 
letters which he wrote to his wife during this pilgrim- 
age of convalescence, a few passages only will be 
quoted. 


1448 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


STEAMSHIP ‘ C1ITy OF RICHMOND,’ 
Sunday, October 7, 1877. 

. My pusillanimous heart looked with devouring 
envy, for a little, on a happy father who had his little 
ones with him. It made me think, of course, with 
double sharpness of regret, of the ‘dear boys I was 
leaving. But the inspiration of the ocean overcame, 
speedily, all painful feelings. . . . This morning, I 
woke about seven, after ten hours of the best sleep I 
have had in many weeks; and, when I went on deck, 
I almost walked, or ran, on tip-toe,—so light and 
strong did I feel. The weather is superb,—scarcely a 
cloud in the sky, and a light breeze which just tips 
the waves with a feather-a-piece of foam. . . . A little 
land-sparrow has been following us, very wing-weary, 
evidently, and I have been wishing it would come on 
board and share my room with me. I would be very 
good to it. But I fear it will fly until it is forced 
to drop into the hungry deep. 


A few days at Bradford, with his friend Colonel 
Shepard, U. S. consul there, a fortnight in Scotland, a 
night at Fryston Hall, as the guest of Lord Houghton, 
and a week in London, filled his time until near the 
end of November. From London he wrote: ‘I cer- 
tainly keep gaining. My physical strength is unques- 
tionably greater than it has been at any time since my 
stroke. I go about all day, now, without thinking of 
fatigue, till night.” His few days in London were 
busily and agreeably spent, among friends who brought 
him into acquaintance with many people of the literary 
world whom he found it delightful to meet. He also © 
renewed friendship with his old Edinburgh school- 
mate, Mr. John Pettie, the artist, whom he had not 
seen since they were boys together. Going, then, to 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 149 


Paris, for a few days, he found it ‘a little too lively’ 
for him, and he returned to England, writing from 
Folkestone, November 30th: = - 


I am back in Folkestone, where I arrived last even- 
ing, and where I have had a thoroughly healthful day, 
roaming over the Kentish downs. I walked almost to 
Dover, and am able to testify that ‘there ’s milestones 
on the Dover road,’ in the words of old Aunt Betsey 
Trotwood. . . . I feel nearer to you, in England, and 
that is the sweetest feeling Europe has now to give 
me. . . . My present plan is to go up to London, to- 
morrow or next day, to get the things I left there; 
thence to run down to the Isle of Wight, or some place 
in that neighborhood, and stay there till the day before 
my ship sails. Yesterday, coming from Paris, I met a 
very pleasant Englishman and his wife, from whom I 
learned a deal as to attractive places on the south 
coast. When we parted we exchanged cards, and my 
compagnon de voyage proved to be Mr. Trevelyan, 
author of that book you liked so much—the Life of 
Macaulay. 


From Ventnor, Isle of Wight, he wrote, Dec. 6th: 


I arrived at two this afternoon, from Southampton, 
where I stopped last night, and a walk along the coast, 
from which [I have just come in, inclines me to think 
that the praises of this island have not been tuned in 
too high a key. In the first place, I have seen the sun 
for the first time in a week, and the sky is blue when 
clear, not turnip color. Then the climate, as it appears 
to-day, is a sort of mild semi-spring. The lanes and 
hedges are green, many shrubs are in blossom, and I 
heard the birds singing cheerily, away in the depths of 
a thicket, surrounding a grand mansion. The shore, 
too, is superbly picturesque in its conformation,—bold 


150 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


headlands and long reaches of sandy beach; while, 
above, tower quite high hills, to the top of which I 
shall make my way to-morrow. The place, however, 
has a decidedly high-priced and aristocratic flavor. 
On all sides, as you walk, you are warned against tres- 
passing, here, and violating the sanctities of something 
or other, there. But I shall, no doubt, enjoy it for the 
five or six days I have to spend, and I’m sure I shall 
enjoy leaving it for the purpose of taking my way 
homeward. 


He sailed from Liverpool for home December 18th, 
and, in his last letter from Ventnor, before leaving the 
Isle of Wight, written December 9th, described his 
state of health, as follows: 


I feel confident that, if I take care of myself and 
arrange my work so as to avoid extra fatigue, I shall 
be all right, now. I consulted a doctor in Paris and 
he told me he thought there would be no danger. Of 
course, I shall not be as strong as I once was; but I 
shall be able to resume my place and be at my post, 
and I feel that it is time that were done. You know, 
niches that are left empty, even by the most distin- 
guished statues, have a way of filling up. ‘So I shall 
come, as I have planned. 


Reaching home, happily, on Christmas morning, he 
seemed to be in fairly good health and his hope of 
being able to resume work was fulfilled. Little more 
than a month passed, indeed, before he reported to his 
brother: ‘Iam again up to the eyes in work.’ But 
he was able to add: ‘In the midst of it all, I have 
been steadily gaining strength and tone. Indeed, my 
progress, the past month has been surprising, and 


THE PRIME OF LIFE. 151 


a subject to me of devout thankfulness. I can work 
with as much ease, now, as ever, while I take care not 
to work late or exhaust myself too much.’ 

He continued in this state of health for some two 
years, always working to nearly the limit of his 
strength, and always feeling that he might pass the 
breaking point at any moment. Early in 1880, the 
line was overstepped, and he was forced to quit his 
post for several weeks, which he spent with friends at 
Norfolk, Va. He wrote to his brother at this time: 


I do not think that my physical condition is as bad 
as you seem to fear. A week of rest has had a marked 
effect, in restoring my nerve-vigor, and I dare say that 
a month of it will put me in condition to resume work 
with safety; the more, as I now see my way clear to 
taking it easy and dropping night-work. If, however, 
the event should prove otherwise, I will cheerfully 
accept my physical break-down as an indication from 
God that I am to leave my present business. No 
doubt, some other way of making a living will be 
opened to me. 


Recovering, again, from the prostration, he resumed 
once more the editorial direction of the Courier, work- 
ing prudently, at first, a few hours daily, but being 
gradually drawn, by the exactions of his post, into the 
over-work which was so surely fatal to him. He knew 
the danger and saw no escape from it. An exclama- 
tion which appears in one of his letters ( July, 1881 ) 
—‘]| keep up remarkably well; but O! I would be glad 
to get out of this business! ’—expressed, no doubt, the 
continual, sad longing he felt. In the summer of 
1882, the inevitable catastrophe occurred. He fell in 


152 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


the galling harness, again, and so had riddance of it, 
finding no more strength to put it on. He lived after- 
wards for six years, and with usefulness, but only as a 
shattered man. 

As he was stricken at this time, his brain seemed 
partly paralyzed for a season,—not producing the slight- 
est derangement of mind, but only a general numbness 
of its faculties. -He had no comprehension of his own 
state, and was helpless in the hands of ready friends 
and of a courageous wife. The co-operation of these 
sent him, once more, over the sea, with his whole fam- 
ily, this time, to care for him and to give him com- 
panionship. He was saved by that measure, for the 
time, and owed entirely to it, no doubt, the precarious 
strength of body and the perfect clearness of mind 
which he regained. 


CHAPTER: Att OG 
RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 


THE religious sentiment was a profoundly inherent 
one in David Gray’s nature. It was by that, and- by 
his poetical sensibility, that he was fashioned as a man. 
‘These two were elemental in his character and his life; 
but the strain of natural piety was the more powerful 
of the two and dominated everything else. Its de- 
mands were the need that he always felt to be supreme ; 
his spiritual cravings were the spring of his sorrow and 
his joy. The time in his life when he lost, for some 
years, the satisfaction of them, was the period of dark 
unhappiness which his letters have disclosed. 

The parental and home influences which surrounded 
him in his boyhood were all tenderly but strictly re- 
ligious. He was bred in an atmosphere of piety, and 
educated to the considering of questions of religious 
belief and religious practice as though all other matters 
were insignificant in the comparison. His parents 
were members of the Baptist church at Edinburgh, 
until 1839, when their views underwent some change, 
which David’s brother has described in the following : 


The Christian Baptist, a religious periodical, pub- 
lished by Alexander Campbell of Bethany, Va., had 
found its way into father’s hands and led him to the 
belief that ‘the Bible and the Bible alone is an all- 


154 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


sufficient guide in faith and practice.’ Feeling that 


this could not be strictly lived up to in the Baptist. 
connection, he, with four others, met for the first time 
on the last Sunday in 1839, in Roman Eagle Hall, 
Lawn Market, as a little body of Disciples of Christ. 
In a year and a half their numbers had, swelled to one 
hundred and fifty. In August, 1847, Alexander Camp- 
bell, then traveling in Great Britain, delivered a series. 
of discourses before large audiences in Waterloo Rooms, 
in the interest of the cause of truth, generally, and to 
strengthen the little congregation whose views coin- 
cided with his own. He was a frequent visitor at our 
house while in Edinburgh, and I well remember with 
what enthusiasm both young and old of us turned out 
to hear the great American orator. David, though 
young at that time, was well informed on religious 
subjects and especially intelligent in the Scriptures ; 
so that when, two years later, we were living near 
Waupun, Wis., and found there a meeting of Disciples, 
it was with a very competent knowledge of what he 
was doing that he publicly confessed his faith in Christ, 
and was ‘ buried with him in baptism,’ in the creek that. 
ran near the school-house, where meetings were held. 
During all his stay in Wisconsin, he continued faith- 
fully and earnestly devoted to a life consistent with his 
profession. He took much interest in religious subjects 
and read a great deal. 

It was just before the Crimean war that Dr. John 
Thomas, of New Jersey, published a book called ‘ Elpsis 
Israel,’ in which was set forth a complete outline of 
prophecy to be fulfilled by Russia, the ‘King of the 
North.’ David’s interest in that book and in passing 
events was intense. He thought that Dr. Thomas held 
the key to unfulfilled prophecy, and, for a time, at least, 
was captivated by his teachings—hbelieving that the 
European war, then commencing, was the beginning of 
the fulfillment of prophecy, and that, soon after, the 
Kingdom of Israel was to be established in Palestine, 


Ss se 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 155. 


with Christ as their King. Dogmatism took possession. 
of Dr. Thomas in subsequent writings, and so displeased 
David that he lost, in time, all faith in him; and in 
one of his letters from Edinburgh he alluded to Chris- 
tadelphian teaching as the doctrine of ‘corner lots in 
Palestine.’ 


David came to Buffalo with religious feelings of the 
utmost fervor still animating him, but with opinions 
so peculiar that he found none among the Christian. 
churches of the city that he could join himself to swith 
a sense of fellowship, or with an approving conscience. 
He wrote at that time (September 26, 1856) to his: 
friend Lindsay : 


I feel rather destitute, as far as religious matters go.. 
Few ‘means of grace, as the Babylonish slang is, 
are mine, other than may have fallen to the lot of 
Robinson Crusoe on the desolate island. I find that 
between me and the generality of religionists there is 
a great gulf fixed, and passage on my part is out of 
the question. I debated with myself the propriety of 
joining the Baptists in the ordinance of the Lord’s. 
Supper; but, as far as I can see, such is not my duty. 
My sentiments, if declared to most of them, would be 
pronounced monstrous, and I think it would be some- 
thing of deceit to sit down. . . . And this is supposing 
such an act to be perfectly salutary to my own religious. 
constitution. But, in communing with a body, do I 
not, in a manner, identify myself with said body, all 
its follies, etc., included? I don’t know about that; 
perhaps it is this way: A company are found pro- 
fessedly following Jesus, and, in pursuance of such 
profession, orderly fulfilling one of the Master’s re- 
quirements ; now, can I not take them simply at their 
word, as to the reality of their discipleship, and reap 
the blessing in thus fulfilling with them, tho’ on my 


156 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


own account, the institution of the Lord? Give me 
your ideas on this matter, my dear Edmond, for I need — 
all the help I can get. I mentioned Robinson Crusoe 
before, and really, when I think of it, I am on a spiritual 
Juan Fernandez here. 


In a letter to the same friend, November 26, 1856, 
he wrote: 


I do not mix a great deal with people here, altho’ I 
have met some real good young men . . . who, if they 
could be drawn out of the clutches of error, would 
ornament any cause. But this I have little hope of ; 
for I am not rooted and grounded in the faith enough, 
myself, yet, to do any more than creep slowly on to 
firmer footing. Oh! how I wish that I were like 
Apollos, ‘mighty in the Word.’ How puny, then, 
would the arguments and foils of the enemy seem; 
for, it appears to me, there is a direct answer to every 
objection to the truth, ready, somewhere in the Word of 
Truth, to be read. ‘Till we can in some degree master 
this power of applying and using Scripture, we must 
be content often to fall and rise,—often to remain 
under a cloud when we could wish to be lightning, 
almost,—and often to feel the chagrin of knowing that 
something might be said to advantage and that we 
can’t say it. I think I shall, as my convictions go 
now—in fact, I have determined to—take the first 
opportunity for re-immersion. J am growing more 
settled on that point, and I feel it a decided comfort 
that I am settling, at last. 


The following spring found him still troubled by the 
question of ‘re-immersion,’ which had not been settled - 
in his mind as he thought it to be, and evidently 
acquiring some distrust of the guide whose interpreta- 
tions of Scripture he had been faithfully following. 
He wrote to Edmond Lindsay, May 27, 1857: 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 15T 


Respecting the question of re-immersion, I am still 
in my old position of painful indecision. How it will 
result with me, I know not. I am sometimes inclined 
to think that John Thomas has got hold of some 
technicalities, and is pushing things far beyond where. 
the spirit of revelation will sustain him. It certainly 
weighs against him, when he subverts our previous. 
ideas of Scripture, that he substitutes a something 
which I confess to be hard of comprehension; and 
that, moreover, a complete re-translation of Holy Writ 
is necessary to its establishment. However, that is 
nothing to the point. If J. T. has been simply a falli- 
ble man, and has run his theories to the ground, the 
truth which he has been the means of bringing to 
light claims attention, still. I, certainly, speaking of 
the Gospel now, would speak of it as the ‘Gospel of 
the Kingdom,’ and not merely as the ‘things concern- 
ing Jesus.’ Iam very sorely tried, in not having any 
intercourse tending to sharpen and strengthen me in 
these matters. 


TO THE SAME. 
BUFFALO, August 20, 1857. 


Touching the subject of re-immersion, . . . I am 
sorry to say that I have no progress to report. I have 
been corresponding with Walter, with Mr. Beattie, 
soliloquizing with myself, growing alternately angry 
and interested over John Thomas’ Herald, and now I 
believe I am in a position which calls for—a continua- 
tion of the process. My views, however, are decidedly 
modified, as well, I perceive, as Walter’s, respecting 
the Gospel, and, if I settle down somewhere into the 
position my father used to hold, you must not rail on 
me for retrograding, but rather pity me for having 
been so long driven about of the winds and tossed. 
God knows, if I had seen re-immersion. to be an end to. 
my perplexities, [ should almost have submitted if it. 
had been a baptism of fire. 


158 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


TO THE SAME. 
BuFFALO, March 5, 1858. 


I think I have extended my vision and learned a 
little, in the past year or two that I have struggled and 
striven through. If it amounts to anything, it is that 
brother John Thomas has not gathered up all the 
truth into the circle of his belief ;—a discovery which 
it took me a long and painful time to make, and which 
I had to work into from the most fortified state of 
opposite belief. The fact is, I think, that J. T. has, 
like many other men, got hold of a valuable idea, and 
has been so transported with his discovery that he has 
made it a kind of all-in-all, to the exclusion of every 
other. Following him closely, I could not see the 
error in which I was, except by a kind of reductio ad 
absurdum ; | saw where his course had led me, and 
thereby saw its falseness . . . I confess to you, my 
experience since surmounting this long existent diff- 
culty has been a most pleasant one. Instead of my 
mind being in a perpetual struggle, in consequence of 
my faith, I find my faith the one composing and sup- 
porting element,—a most salutary change, I assure 
you. 

TO THE SAME. 
-  BuFFao, May 19, 1858. 

I desire very much to talk with you, now, on the 
things of the Kingdom. I think a happy change has 
come Over my mind since you saw me; as I have been 
able to correct my ideas on almost everything, so it 
has been with my understanding of Scripture, and with 
my ideas of the Christian system. The isolated, con- 
tracted kind of life which was mine in Wisconsin gave 
me corresponding ideas. I think intercourse with my 
fellows has had a corrective influence on me. But on 
this I will not enlarge. May God in His infinite 
mercy keep me from trusting in my own strength and 
‘wisdom ! 


=_— =" 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 159 


The state of feeling expressed in the last of these 
letters was one in which David continued, probably, 
for some time longer. If not joined with any church, 
he was actively engaged in Christian work, not only in 
his connection with the Young Men’s Christian Union, 
but also, and especially, as one of the teachers of a 
mission Sunday-school, which he helped to carry on for 
several years in the worst district in the city,—the 
‘Five Points of Buffalo,’ as it was called in those days. 
He was greatly interested in the class of waifs whom 
he had gathered under his teaching in this school, and 
on whom he exerted an influence—there can be no 
doubt of it—which affected the lives of some among 
them, if not all. He kept acquaintance with them, as 
far as possible, and watched their course in after 
years, with great satisfaction from the knowledge that 
several of these ‘children of the street’ had become 
successful, trustworthy, useful members of society. 

But a chill of some nature came upon David’s relig- 
ious feelings after a time, and his life for several years 
was much troubled by it. His brother states that ‘he 
came in contact with men whose influence was against 
Christianity, and that an effect was produced on his 
mind, at first imperceptible to himself.’ The effect of 
that influence, whatever it may have been, was un- 
doubtedly helped by the excitements and distractions 
into which he was led, first by his newspaper associa- 
tions, and afterwards by the gay life of ‘society’ into 
which he plunged. As early as in August, 1861, he 
wrote: ‘In religious matters I seem to suffer a total 
eclipse.’ But, as he said a little later to one who 
questioned him: ‘These things are never out of my 


160 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


mind.’ It was the always present thought of his 
spiritual alienation which clouded his life at that 
period, and which gave their tone of bitterness to some 
of the letters that have been quoted in a former chap- 
ter. The following is from a letter which he wrote to 
a very near friend, in March, 1865: 


I know your loving Christian heart would like to 
have me say that I, too, had found that rest and 
refuge which are better than any philosophy or experi- 
ence afford. I cannot say it, H., yet. I only know 
that I am wretched, and must be, till a great change 
comes. I do not seek to evade the wretchedness, until 
I can exchange it—not for pleasure, nor happiness, 
even, but for blessedness. But how that change is to 
be made I know not yet. Anything that anybody, 
even you, could say to me, instantly resolves itself into 
a theory or system, and then it is assailable; then the 
whole pack of doubts and questionings leap on it like 
mad and tear it down, and trample it into the undis- 
tinguishable mire into which other systems have been 
worried to death before it. But just let me wait and 
ruminate and suffer. It cannot be wrong, that. While 
I feel, more keenly than words can speak, my loathsome 
baseness and utter weakness, I still have a forlorn 
feeling that God is love, and that love is leading me 
even now. Remember, I don’t use that feeling as a 
justification of my miserable status. 


The change which he hoped and waited for was long 
in coming to him. He did not find it during the years 
of his old-world pilgrimage, although his religious feel- — 
ings were much touched and wakened, several times. 
While traveling in Italy, in 1866, his attention was 
first turned, as it seems, to the simple and earnest 
communion of the ‘Plymouth Brethren, so called, 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 161 


which he afterwards joined. The incident that inter- 
ested him in them was related in a letter to his father 
and mother, written from Venice, May 9th of that 
year : 


At Bologna, a week or ten days ago, at the hotel 
there, I got into conversation with an English gentle- 
man, who, from some remarks he let fall, at once 
seemed to be a Christian, and not of the kind who 
rely much on churches or ministers. I found he had 
become converted, as he said, by reading the New Tes- 
tament and hearing the word preached by an Italian 
evangelist, and had found himself drawn to sympathy 
with the Plymouth Brethren, although he had never 
formally joined their communion. Having owed some 
of his knowledge of the Gospel to Italy, he had, since, 
as much as possible, for eight years, been devoting 
himself to testifying among the Italians his gratitude. 
He was able to tell me some very interesting things 
about a religious reformation now in progress through 
Italy,—that to which he is giving his aid. In most of its 
leading features, this reformation is exactly such as that 
of Britain and America. It is an uprising of faith and 
knowledge, gained simply and solely from the Scrip- 
tures, and in which the thraldom of the priesthood is ut- 
terly repudiated. The little churches of these believers, 
scattered throughout Italy, almost altogether composed 
of the poor in this world’s goods, and often subjected to 
grievous persecutions from the Catholic Church, have 
struck out a form of church order and government 
precisely that of the Reformation called Campbellite. 
They meet once a week to break bread. They likewise 
recognize the necessity of the believer’s baptism, and 
profess to have no other rule or authority than that of 
the Bible for their conduct. Their evangelists, men who 
give their strength to the work for no money remuner- 
ation, are now busily spreading what I have no doubt 

11 


162 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


is the very Gospel, in every part of a country which, 
five years ago, was hermetically sealed against the 
light. A good proof of the genuineness of the move- 
ment is, that the various missionary societies and evan- 
gelizing agencies of the orthodox churches in Britain 
look coldly on the ‘Free Christian Church of Italy,’ 
and invite it to declare its creed and take to itself a 
distinctive name, before they will give it aid,—an invi- 
tation, [ am glad to say, which the Italian believers 
courteously but firmly decline. This is interesting, isn’t 
it? My friend, Col. Cartan—like Mr. Symonds, he is 
a retired officer—seemed to be a devoted and intelligent 
man, and I enjoyed the two or three days communica- 
tion T had with him, very much. 


The next year he was in the Holy Land, and no 
other part of his travel interested him so much as the 
visiting of the scenes of the Gospel history. It was 
the interest of a Christian believer that he felt, and he 
was probably never shaken in that belief; but his faith 
had become spiritually cold, and, even yet, there was 
no kindling of it anew. Soon after his return from 
Palestine, while at Gotha, Germany, in July, 1867, le 
wrote to his friend David Taylor: _ 


The idea struck me suddenly with a thump, the other 
day, to ask you whereabouts you have arrived nowadays 
on the religious question. I almost smile when I re- 
member how we arranged that subject between us, long 
ago: how sore and sensitive I used to feel on it, and 
how religiously we avoided it. For better or worse, 
that is all changed with me, now, and I would really 
like, if you happen to feel interested in this respect, 
when you next write, that you would speak out what- 
ever you may have to say. As for myself, touching 
religion, I am almost led to doubt whether some im- 
portant faculty has not been omitted in my make-up, 





RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 10a 


so utterly have I failed to find foothold in the dark 
and dubious realm,—so totally barren of results does 
my life seem to be, so far as the forming of beliefs, or 
even of opinions, goes. I am altogether a negative, 
while you are a positive man; and thus I cannot but 
think that you must be pretty well defined and fixed in 
your notions. If so, give me the benefit, as you can. 
Life is too short for discussions and arguments ; so you 
need dread nothing of that sort on my side. 


Ten more years were yet to pass before the light 
which he looked for—the light which had shone upon 
his spirit in youth and which his manhood had lost— 
reappeared to him. In 1877 he experienced a change 
which made him, for all the remainder of his life, a 
totally different man. larly in the summer of that 
year, his thoughts became fixed on the questions of 
religion with more seriousness than he had shown 


before. Mrs. Gray says: 


When we were at Block Island, that year, he carried 
a copy of the New Testament with him in all his walks. 
Davy [their young son] was his almost constant com- 
panion on these walks, and he used to tell me how his 
father would lie down on the cliffs near the sea and 
read his Testament, very often reading aloud to Davy 
and talking with him about what he had read. From 
that time until he died, there was no subject that had 
for him so deep an interest. 


Soon after coming home from Block Island, he suf- 
fered the prostration which first broke his strength, 
and he then went abroad, as has been told, for three 
months. On returning from England, he paid a visit 
to his parents at Detroit, and while there, at a Sunday 
morning meeting of the Disciples, he made a public 


164 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


confession of faith which impressed those who heard — 
it very deeply. His brother writes of this: ‘He 
confessed that he had been a wanderer, subject to 
very great religious aberration; but he thanked the 
Heavenly Father that he had been spared to see his 
folly. He desired to humbly acknowledge his wrong, 
and for the future to live by help from above, as a 
true and devoted servant of Christ.’ On the 30th of 
August following he was received ‘by experience’ 
(the church record states) into the Washington Street 
Baptist Church, at Buffalo. ‘Rev. Dr. Hotchkiss, a 
man of profound research and knowledge of the Serip- 
tures’ (says David’s brother), ‘was then pastor, and 
with him David held much in common, enjoying his 
expositions as well as his spiritual life. But the divided 
state of the church filled his mind with sadness, and 
led him often to speak of it, as ‘the church in ruins ;” 
_ and at the same time he became gradually convinced 
that faithful allegiance to Christ required him to take 
a position of separation from all the confusion prevail- 
ing in the religious world.’ 
In June, 1879, he wrote to his brother: 


I do want to have a long talk with you about many 
subjects. My heart is full. ... Meantime I am 
waiting and inquiring as to my duty. But, thank 
God! although I am undecided on some points of 
conduct, I have peace and joy and the assurance of 
forgiveness of sin through the merey of God in Christ 
Jesus; and what could a man wish for, more,—save 
that he might grow in grace and in the knowledge of | 
that Blessed One who has not only died that we might 
live, but has entered into the heavens to appear for us 
in the presence of His Father ? 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 165 


He found himself, now, drawn by an increasing 
attraction towards the people known as the Plymouth 
Brethren, among whom were already counted some of 
the friends who were dearest to him. Writing to one 


of these, on the 2d of April, 1880, he said: 


It is grand to see the glories of Christ shining out 
of every page of Scripture. Everywhere He is ‘set 
forth’ as the object of our wonder, adoration and love. 
O, that my wretched lean and cold heart might be 
filled with Him. I am conscious of suffering sadly 
for lack of more intimate and simple communion with 
His people than I now enjoy, and I long for the time 
when [ shall see my way clear to have fellowship with 
your brethren. But, for the present, I dare not follow 
my inclination in this matter. If these Washington 
Street Baptists are God’s people, as I believe they are, 
what right have I to leave them? Admit that they 
are uninstructed, and that their order in some things is 
not that of the New Testament; still, it should be my 
business, rather to try and set them right than to turn 
my back on them. And, then, while I feel that the 
position held by your brethren is the true one, and I 
intensely desire to be with them in their separation from 
the world and oneness with Christ, I cannot compre- 
hend how they can stand in resistance to the (to me) 
plain and unmistakable appointment of Christ, in 
regard to baptism. Something wrong in both places, 
I am forced to think ; and what right have I to think 
of making (if I may use the phrase) a choice of evils? 
There is no such thing tolerated in the Word of God. 
The logic of my present reasoning would be, come out 
of both, or all, and stay out till the way be made clear. 
And yet, and yet,—I shrink from that as a great 
peril! I pray that, while I am waiting for more light, 
I may be strengthened and built up in the life of 
Christ,—that He may dwell in my heart by faith, and 


166 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


that I may know His- love which passeth knowledge. 
I know that He alone can keep me, in this state of trial 
and transition, and I do want to look only to Him. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 
BuFFALO, February 15, 1881. 


I read with great interest the articles in the papers 
you sent me, and have very little criticism to make on 
the editor’s presentation of the subject. I would give 
baptism just the place and just the importance the 
Word gives it; but, at the same time, would be careful 
not to let it obscure other and greater truths. See 
Luke iii: 16, where a comparison of baptisms is made. 
It is the baptism of the Holy Spirit which gives us 
our union with Christ (1 Cor. xii: 13), our life and 
standing in Him; and it appears (among other pas- 
sages, see Acts x: 44) that that mighty change some- 
times took place before water baptism was administered. 
I merely throw these out as suggestions, and not at all 
as taking up a controversy with you; for I don’t 
think you and I would differ on the subject. I do 
wish we could often get together for conversation and 
communion regarding the things of Christ. I have 
but poor opportunities ; nevertheless, I have had great 
joy and comfort in my recent studies of the Seriptures. 
Can’t you run down soon and spend a Sunday with us, 
again? 


TO THE SAME. 
“BuFFALo, May 18, 1881. 


I have devoted all the few spare hours I have had 
since you kindly sent me Mr. Patton’s book to its 
perusal, and have been greatly interested in it. He 
certainly has a great deal of truth, some of which is 
new to me and very valuable. But I fear he goes 
farther in some things than the Word, fairly read, will 
sustain him. . 


—' s>. ee 


ee 


RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 167 


In fact, we must always be entirely ready to stop 
and unload the most attractive theory when we collide 
with a plain statement of the Word. Our theories 
may easily be wrong; but the Word cannot be. Let us 
hold ourselves perfectly subject to it, even though that 
leave us to wait in great confusion and ‘ignorance. 
More light will come, if our hearts be right before God. 
It was with his heart (not head) that David set him- 
self to understand the times of his people, and imme- 
diately the angel was sent to enlighten him. I would 
very much enjoy a long talk with you all,—not an 
argument; I don’t think much good comes of arguing. 
But it is delightful to go to the Book and question it 
and bow before its wondrous answers. Patton’s book, 
at any rate, is very suggestive; and he certainly has 
brought out a new and vivid meaning in many Scrip- 
tures that were meaningless to me, before. 


TO THE SAME. 
BUFFALO, August 24, 1881. 


. . . By the way, I have chanced to learn a little, 
lately, of those people in Pittsburgh (‘Zion’s Watch 
Tower’) with whom Mr. Patton seems to be in sympa- 
thy. I think I saw one of their tracts in your possession. 
I have read a little of Mr. Russell’s writing, myself— 
perhaps the same tract I saw you have. It is very 
significant that, here and there throughout the country, 
we are seeing a breaking away of earnest, hungry souls 
from the corruptions of the professing church. There 
is a movement of a similar kind just now in Chicago, 
and it seems to me that Moody’s Conference at North- 
field is squinting decidedly in the same direction. But, 
alas! I find the Pittsburgh Watchmen of Zion do not 
always seem to be content simply with what is written. 
They want to know more than is revealed, and draw on 
their imaginations to make up the deficiency. At least, 
that is what I am bound to think of much of their 


168 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


teaching (and Mr. Patton’s) as to the destiny of the 
unsaved dead, the various ‘orders’ and classes of 
saved, and some other subjects. But, with this, they 
have much of the inspiring truth which has been 
brought out among our so-called ‘ Plymouth’ friends, 
and this activity of inquiry is surely better than the 
spiritual death we find inside the churches. 


TO THE SAME. 
BuFFALO, May 2, 1882. 


In this day of ruin and apostacy of what calls itself 
the Church, there is nothing left for us but the un- 
changeable Lord Jesus Christ, himself. The day of 
man’s building for God is past. Gathered to His name 
—to that alone—and waiting for Him in the place 
of humiliation and rejection, where He once was for 
us,—that is the Christian’s position, as it seems to me. 
Diligent, fervent in spirit in His service, alert in testi- 
mony for Him; but, most of all, watching and yearning 
for His coming,—having no ties or plans in this world 
that would keep our hearts here a moment,—that is 
how He would have us be, for the ‘very, very little 
while’ (Heb. x: 87, literal translation) until He come. 
Ah, John, may He give us grace and strength and love 
for Himself in our hearts, that we may be thus kept ! 


The precise time at which David became finally per- 
suaded to join the little company of the Plymouth 
Brethren in Buffalo does not appear; but his affiliation 
with them occurred, probably, within the year 1882. 
His brother, who understood his religious feelings bet- 
ter than any other person, perhaps, has this to say on 
the subject: 

Amongst this people, he felt that he was in a meas- 


ure answering to the promptings of his mind, as enlight- 
ened by careful study of the Scriptures. Though his 





RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 169 


old friends might often charge him with narrowness 
and bigotry, still he never shrank from making known 
his views, believing that his former indifference but 
obligated him the more to faithfully bear witness for 
the truth. That his position was often one of severe 
suffering to his sensitive nature cannot be doubted, in 
view of what he once said on this subject in connection 
with his family: ‘Do you think it costs me no pain 
to sever myself from all that is dearest to me? No 
mere sentiment, nothing but loyalty to Christ, could 
induce me to take this position.’ But, in taking it, 
there was the result of that deep earnestness which 
earried his mind to the extreme limit of self-abnega- 
tion, and which sought rather the infliction of sacrifice 
that he might bear witness more faithfully. His prin- 
cipal question to himself was, ‘ How shall I best declare 
my gratitude for the unspeakable mercy that has been | 
bestowed upon me?’ His thought was that if he had 
formerly served the things of time and sense, he had 
been spared to see the folly of that, and all his care 
was that he might live no longer to these things, but 
to Him who died to save the world. Following his 
sickness in 1882-4, this was especially true; for in 
his removal from journalism he recognized, again, the 
wisdom and goodness of a Father’s care, and he be- 
heved it a direct interposition of that higher will. 

His sojourn at that time in Europe was marked by 
the enjoyment he found in communing with little bod- 
ies of those who had heard and followed the teachings 
of Scripture, as expounded. to them by John Darby, 
years before, on his sojourn in the French and Swiss 
Alps; and it was his delight to find so many of his 
own brethren who were faithful and true to what 
they had learned. In Great Britain, many of those 
little assemblies were enlivened by his presence and 
strengthened by his words. 


CHAPT HT Ray ie 


Last YEARS AND DraTtTH. 1882-1888. 


Ir was by an act of high courage on the part of his 
wife that Gray was taken across the Atlantic, in 
September, 1882. The strange cloud upon his mind 
had thickened, until he knew nothing of what was. 
done; he was as helpless as the youngest of the three 
children—a babe of eight months—who went with 
them. He was so ill on the voyage that the ship’s 
surgeon expressed doubt of his living to the end of it. 
Mrs. Gray was inexperienced in ocean travel, and a 
situation more forlorn than her’s cannot easily be con- 
ceived. But a brave, affectionate heart, with great 
hopefulness and resolution, carried her through the 
terrible trial; and she had her reward. Before a week 
passed, after landing at Liverpool, the darkness in 
David’s brain began to be lighted with gleams of con- 
sciousness. He recognized, for the first time since 
leaving home, the strangeness of his surroundings, and 
was soon able to understand what had happened to 
him and whither he had been brought. When he 
knew that he had his family about him, his joy was very 
great. His mental recovery was rapid, and his physical 
improvement so encouraging that he had strength for 
considerable walks in Liverpool, before his stay of a 
fortnight in that city was ended. 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. LTE 


From Liverpool, the family went, first, under advice, 
to Clifton, a beautiful suburb of the old city of Bris- 
tol; but unfavorable weather, there, drove them further 
south, and they settled themselves at Ventnor, in the. 
_ Isle of Wight. It was a place which David had found _ 
pleasant on his visit in 1877, and he now came back to. 
it with much delight. He improved visibly, from day 
to day, during three months at Ventnor, and the time 
was a happy one for all. His first letter home was 
written from that place, in November, to his brother. 
He touched in it, a little, on some questions as to the 
future, and remarked: ‘It is a subject on which | 
_ think little, knowing as I do that the way will be 
opened for us as we proceed. But this much I may 
say: It does seem as if I had done my last news- 
paper work, and as if my connection with politics were 
definitely closed.’ 

On the ist of January following, he wrote again : 


A happy New Year to you and yours! And please 
extend the fervent wish and prayer to Randolph street, 
as well as to the dear ones on Adams avenue. How 
blessed it is for us that we know where the highest— 
the only true—happiness is unfailingly to be: found, 
and that it is not for a paltry year, but for eternity ! 
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! In 
Him is happiness—reasonable, unfailing, infinite. To 
Him be praise! .. . 

That I am doing well and gaining strength, this 
letter will in itself show you. As it is the biggest 
thing yet out from my hand, I regard it with some 
pride and amazement. 


The beginning of the new year brought fog and 
damp weather to the Isle of Wight, and it was thought 


172 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


best to proceed to the south of France for the remain- 

der of the winter. At Paris, the party halted for some 
time, waiting the arrival of David’s brother, who 
joined them there early in February, with his wife. 
While at Paris, David wrote to his father and mother: 


Paris is, by long odds, the most magnificent and 
brilliant city in the world; but the Christian is con- 
tinually made to feel that the god of this world is 
supreme in it, and that it is, for God’s people, an 
enemy’s country. Yet, even here, 1 have found a few 
who meet together every first day in the week, to 
remember the death of the Lord Jesus Christ; and, in 
breaking bread with them and joining in their simple, 
warm-hearted worship, I have had unspeakable joy and. 
blessing. There are about fifty or sixty of them, I 
should think. . . . How wonderful have been the 
grace and loving-kindness that have kept us as a fam- 
ily! Even in the stroke that has laid me aside, I can- 
not fail to feel a Father’s hand, and that in love. It 
assures me that J am a son, and the object of His 
tender, watchful care. And, though it seems as if I 
shall have to begin life all over again when I get 
through with this vacation, yet I know He will prepare 
my path. Infinite power, infinite wisdom, infinite love, 
—all these are ours in our Blessed Lord. ‘ All things 
are your’s, and ye are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.’ 
What a chain is that! 


The two brothers, with their families, traveled south, 
together, in February, as far as the little town of St. 
Raphael, on the Mediterranean, between Marseilles 
and Cannes, where David, and his, were advised to 
remain through the spring. ‘ Here,’ writes Mrs. Gray, 
“our invalid was by the sea, once more, and we could . 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. LS 


see him grow strong. His spirits rose and he reveled 
in the beauties of sea and land. We saw the spring 
come, and many long tramps the family took, together, 
by the ocean and inland among the Esterelle mountains, 
no one standing the fatigue better or getting more 
enjoyment from the lovely scenes about us than he.’ 

The improved state of David’s health while at St. 
Raphael, and afterwards at Cannes, was shown by the 
industry of his pen in correspondence. <A few passages. 
only can be culled out of many letters that he wrote 
to his father and mother, to his brother, then traveling 
in Italy, and to other friends. 


TO JAMES N. JOHNSTON. 


St. RAPHAEL, March 9, 1883. 


. Let me suggest and urge that you come over 
in May and join us in Switzerland. There, on the 
high, tonic summits of God’s mountains, you and I 
could perchance breathe fresh, vigorous health. For 
myself, as you know, I have everything to be thankful 
for. The first stages of my convalescence were simply 
marvelous. Afterward, however, the pace slowed down 
a little, and, for six weeks past, I have been reminded 
not to expect too much. This is the first day since we 
left Ventnor, two months ago, that I have felt equal to. 
a letter, and even now my right side admonishes me to. 
hasten to a close. It was a pretty hard knock-over, 
James, and deep wounds need time to heal. That we. 
have made no mistake in coming here, my improved 
sleep and recovered strength happily assure me. 


ale:! BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


TO HIS PARENTS, ON THEIR GOLDEN WEDDING 
ANNIVERSARY. 


St. RAPHAEL, March 15, 1888. 


You may imagine that you have been much in our 
thoughts and in our talks and prayers these days, and 
especially are we all with you in spirit to-day. It 
seems a little hard that neither of your sons should be 
with you on so memorable an occasion; but that, I 
feel well assured, has all been wisely and lovingly 
ordered, and so we bow to it thankfully. I wish I 
could send you a wedding present worthy of the occa- 
sion, and which would in some small measure express 
the love that is in my heart for you both; but, that 
being impossible—‘ silver and gold have I none ’—I do 
the next best thing,—a better thing, perhaps, after all: 
~I invoke for you the best blessings that can flow from 
the source of Divine Love. If God will that we shall 
all be spared to meet again in the body, I am sure it 
will be to praise Him together for all His goodness. 


TO HIS SISTER. 


St. RAPHAEL, March 31, 1883. 


. . . I have just learned of a little meeting of breth- 
ren at Cannes, about twenty miles from here, and hope 
to break bread with them to-morrow. Wherever we 
have been, I have been rejoiced by sweet fellowship with 
the Lord’s people. It is especially pleasant in this God- 
less country to find such simple-hearted lovers of the 
Lord Jesus and such intelligent students of His Word 
as I have lately met. Truly our way has been wonder- 
fully prepared for us, and we should be faithless and 
ungrateful, indeed, if we did not trust in the Father’s 
continued love and care of us for the days to come. 





{ 
‘ 
ee a i i ee i i a 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. sea, 


TO JAMES N. JOHNSTON. 
St. RAPHAEL, March 31, 1883. 


. . . Your ideas as to the future of the Gray family, 
Lam glad to see, are ours. Sometimes I am tempted to 
an anxious thought, when I look forward to beginning 
business life again ; but when I remember how lovingly, 
graciously and tenderly I have been dealt with by my 
Father, my heart well may murmurings cease. The 
37th Psalm has been a useful scripture to me; like- 
wise a verse. or two in the 13th of Hebrews. 


TO HIS FATHER. 
CANNES, April 25, 1883. 


We have been tenderly and lovingly guided in every 
step of our journeyings; but in none has the wise care 
of our Father been more strikingly displayed than in 
our choice of this place as a waiting-station. It is a 
lovely spot, with a superb winter and spring climate, 
and the air of the ocean and the mountains, both of 
which distil their aérial chemicals for our benefit, is 
good for us all and is doing me especial good. Then, 
the resources of the place are so varied as to be almost 
inexhaustible; [ mean in the way of walks and exeur- 
sions. Every morning, Guthrie* and I discover some 
new ramble among the hills or among the nooks of the 
sea-shore, which fairly inspires us by its rich and _bril- 
liant beauty. But, best of all, I have, also, company, as 
much as I want, and of the best. I had the address of 
a brother in the Lord here at Cannes, but I somehow 
got the idea that there was no meeting, and so I did 
not make haste to put myself in communication with 
him. When, finally, I did write him, however, the 
second day after brought him and another brother, an 
evangelist, to St. Raphael, to see me, and I have had 


* His younger son. 


176 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


the privilege of remembering the Lord’s death at His 
table every Lord’s day since; for they told me of the 
meeting, here, which has been to me a great blessing 
and joy. It was through the friend to whom I wrote, 
Mr. Gounet, that we came to Cannes, and secured de- 
lightful quarters at a less rate than we had been pay- 
ing at St. Raphael. . . . Indeed, wherever I turn, I 
am made to realize what a wondrous bond that is 
which binds together members of Christ’s body. In 
company with Mr. Gounet, I have visited a number of 
the brethren at their houses, and you ought to see me, 
some time, talking with them about the things of God, 
in my bad French, and enjoying a fellowship as inti- 
mate as if I had known them all my life... . 

I note with interest what you say about getting on to 
a piece of land, after I get back, if I am spared to see 
America again. I may say that I have often had sim- 
ilar plans in my mind, and in most respects, perhaps, 
yours is feasible. It is best, however, I think, that I 
should let my way open up before me as I go along. I 
certainly have no fear but that I shall be able to find 
some way of getting an honest and quiet living. The. 
promises are too numerous and positive to admit of 
doubt on this head. My constant prayer is that I may 
be guided absolutely by the Word of God; that I may 
have no will of my own in the matter, and that, what- 
ever I do, whether in word or deed, I may be enabled 
to do all in the name of the Lord Jesus. It certainly 
looks to me as if the Lord had meant, in His recent 
dealings with me, to take me out of the business I was 
in. He knows I waited for Him to do that in His own 
time and way; but, if I am mistaken in this, I will 
know the fact in due time. 


Leaving Cannes about the middle of May, Gray 
went next to Geneva, with his family, and was received 
into the same household in which, eighteen years before, 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. aT 


he had lived and studied French for six months. From 
Geneva he wrote to his brother, June 10th: 


During our sojourn here, I have made numerous in- 
quiries and one or two excursions with a view to decide 
where we had best move to. I have some thought of 
starting to-morrow into the Canton de Vaud, to see 
what I can find. There are meetings of brethren in 
_ almost all the villages of that country, which would 
make it preferable, if I can find other essential condi- 
tions fulfilled. The gathering here is a large and very 
happy one, and I have profited by that not a little. 


Two weeks later he was at the opposite end of Lake 
Leman, at Clarens, which he described to his father 
as an ‘earthly paradise.’ ‘There is no water in the 
world,’ he added, ‘so deeply blue as that of Lake 
Leman, and the superb mountains that tower from its 
shores, all round, make it look still more mirror-like. 
In some places, the mountains are vine-clad or wooded 
far up their sides, while in other directions the glitter- 
ing, snow-clad peaks of the Alps look down at us, and 
fairly peek in at our windows.’ Writing, also, to his 
friend Johnston, from Clarens, he said: 


Please overhaul your Byron ( Childe Harold, third 
eanto, I think) and read .what he says of Clarens. 
You might also glance over the once familiar screed 
about The Prisoner of Chillon; for I rowed the 
family up the lake from our hotel door to the prison 
of Bonnivard this forenoon. It was a couple of hours of 
good rowing, there and back, and I was not a bit tired ; 
so you may imagine, as a skilled oarsman, that I am 
not ina very feeble physical condition. Indeed, James, 
I am happy to say that I feel myself unmistakably 

12 


178 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


gaining in health and strength. Progress has been 
slow and symptoms often discouraging, but, though the 
sears are still fresh, I feel that a cure has been made. 
For this I humbly thank my God and Father. I take 
it from His hand as signifying that He wills I should 
re-enter, by and by, the struggle of this earthly life. 
I should have been quite content, I trust, had He willed 
otherwise ; but, as it is, trusting to His strength, to be 
manifested in my weakness, His wisdom in my folly, I 
shall come back thankfully and renew the fight. And 
I can add in truth and verity, that my main, if not my 
only, anxiety is, that I may be kept faithful to Him 
whose Iam and whom I serve. But enough of that. 
Talk is cheap; the rough event will show. . . . 

Before we came here I had spent over a week in the 
mountains, studying up the question of high places of 
resort. My Paris doctor strongly recommends a month 
or two at an elevation of not less than 4,000 or 5,000 
feet, and I have been testing a few such stations. 
Where we shall mount to is not yet decided, nor will 
it be for a week, yet; for the season continues cold and 
the high altitudes are not habitable till the heat begins. 
Probably you will next hear of me as a chamois hunter, 
or a member of the Alpine Club. 


The mountain station finally chosen was at Morgins, 
Canton de Valais, which David described in his first 
letter, written from it (July 6th), as ‘a valley, about 
4,600 feet above sea-level, high, green hills around it, 
densely wooded with hemlock and pine on one side; a 
“mountain torrent rushing down the center and the high 
Alps peeping over at us.’ ‘The air,’ he added, ‘is 
very bracing and I feel sure it is going to do me good. 
Moreover, it is not very expensive.’ A week later he 
wrote to his father: 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 179 


When I go out in the mornings and smell the smells 
of the woods and take in the atmospheric champagne, 
I feel like walking on my tip-toes.... The green 
hill-sides are dotted with chalets of the natives, whose 
sole industry and occupation is the keeping of cows. 
The dairy people drive them up, as soon as the snow 
leaves the lower hills, and they (the cows) keep grazing 
on the fresh young herbage, higher and higher up, as 
the season advances, till you meet them, sometimes, 
7,000 or 8,000 feet up. The weather has been rather 
unsettled since we came; but I have managed, never- 
theless, to have a long ramble over the hills nearly 
every day, and I find that even a five hours vigorous 
excursion of this sort does not tire me unduly. 


Those ‘vigorous excursions,’ however, were a sad 
mistake, as would seem to be proved by the result. 
The bracing mountain-air tempted him beyond his 
strength, to a measure of bodily exercise which harmed 
rather than healed. his disordered nerves. His need 
was still the same that it had been—rest—and he mis- 
understood it. Mrs. Gray writes: ‘I cannot but 
believe that his strength was greatly overtaxed and 
the chance for his recovery lost by that summer in 
the mountains. Each day, he used up his vitality in 
exercise, and when, the latter part of August, we went 
down into the plain again, a great depression fell upon 
him, from which he never really rallied.’ 

On coming down from the mountains, the family 
stayed ten days at Lucerne, from which place David, 
feeling badly affected by the change, wrote: ‘It occurs 
to me that perhaps I am not to recover my former 
health and strength entirely ; but will always be a sort 
of barometrically-affected being and “lame duck.” If 


180 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


so, why, so be it. I surely have enough already to be 
thankful for.’ While at Lucerne, he had an oppor- 
tunity to consult his Paris physician, and was advised 
by him to go to Badenweiler, a charming little spa 
on the edge of the Black Forest, and to try the effect 
of its baths. ‘The doctor,’ says Mrs. Gray, ‘saw that 
David had lost ground, and when I told him how he 
had gone mad on the subject of exercise, he shook his 
head and forbade long walks or anything that would, in 
the least, fatigue.’ The baths were tried, but did not 
prove to be beneficial. After a fortnight at Baden- 
weiler, the patient invalid was forced to say: ‘I’m not 
exactly where I would like to be, physically, yet.2 A 
week afterwards, he had become convinced that he must 
not hope to return home for any kind of work or busi- 
ness until another year. His physician, he wrote, found 
‘a condition of weakness of the involuntary nerve 
system (and, by consequence, of the digestive and other 
organs and functions), which looks to a still longer 
time for recovery than I had hoped.’ ‘The doctor inti- 
mates,’ he continued, ‘that I have been overdoing all 
summer, and that I must now come down to a regimen 
of rest and no end of coddling.’ In another letter to 
his brother, he reported a still more emphatic expression 
from the doctor,—that it would be madness for him to 
think of any kind of business in his present state; and 
‘I am admonished,’ he added, ‘in various ways, from 
within, that he is right.’ Hence the decision to remain 
in Europe through another winter. ‘This side the 
ocean,’ he remarked, ‘is better than the other for an 
idle man. There is no place in the United States for 
an invalid who is able to be out of the hospital. So, 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 181 


if the Lord will, we leave here for winter-quarters at 
Montreux, on Thursday morning.’ 

From October until the following March, the family 
was settled quietly in ‘ pension’ at Montreux, on Lake 
Leman, or the Lake of Geneva, with the boys attend- 
ing school. ‘A beautiful spot,’ was David’s account 
of it, ‘ with delightful surroundings; and the air agrees 
with us all.’ Whether, on the whole, he made any 
clear progress towards health through the winter, 
seemed doubtful; but his letters were all contented and 


hopeful: 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


PENSION MOOSER, 
MONTREUX, November 6, 1883. 


. Time is wearing on with us, here, so quietly 
and stealthily that the winter is like to get past with- 
out notice, almost. I have subsided so completely into 
the laziness of my life that the little routine of eating, 
sleeping, walking, etc., quite fills it up, and leaves me 
no leisure to get weary or dull in. My commonest 
thought is one of lively thankfulness, as often as I 
realize how wonderfully I am being blessed, in getting 
this opportunity for rest and recuperation. Indeed, 
John, from the moment I ceased to be able to do for 
myself, I seem to have been lying on a bed of down; 
perfectly cared for, and with the strength of the 
Almighty arms supporting my weakness. I feel quite 
confident that I am to be a well man again, and I hope, 
even, that in some way the last bit of my life may be 
of some use in the Blessed Master’s service; but, 
surely, after what has befallen me, I should have no 
misgiving, whatever His will may be concerning me. 
In fine, what a discovery it is, when one finds out, 
actually and really, that ‘ He careth for us’! 


182 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


And you may be sure, dear John, that I count 
among’ the choicest of God’s gifts the brother’s love 
of which I am having such an experience these days. 
You have fairly got my burden on your back, and I 
am getting so I do not worry about it... . 

There is a little meeting here, in Montreux, where 
the loaf is broken, every first day of the week, in 
remembrance of the Lord’s death. 


TO HIS FATHER AND MOTHER. 


MONTREUX, December 1, 1883. 


. . . The routine of my life is uneventful enough, and 
the large amount of time-killing it includes would surely 
lie heavy on my conscience, were it not that, on the 
authority of the doctors, it is just the kind of thing 
that I am to make a business of for the time being. 
And so I fill my empty days with sunshine and medi- 
tation, and praise the grace that sends them to me in 
my need. 


TO JAMES N. JOHNSTON. 


MonrTREvX, December 18, 1883. 
. . . Ah! James, I wish you could drop over here, one 


of these fine, sunny, southern winter mornings! This — 


morning, I sauntered down the hill from high Montreux 
and struck the lake-shore in its northwestward trend. 
Half or three-quarters of an hour brought me under 
the walls of Chillon, and I gazed off, on each side of 
the castle, at the blue expanse of the lake, and the 
Alps beyond. Half an hour further, still along the 
lake, and there were the Hotel Byron and Villeneuve, 
the former place, with its beautiful grounds and view, 
redolent to me of Stillson. You can imagine, perhaps, 
what thoughts accompanied me. . . . If you could 
come over, what walks and talks we would have, 
around the poetic lake! 





ia 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. rss 


TO HIS FATHER. 


' MONTREUX, February 12, 1884. 


. .. I feel myself of late improving, although but 
slowly, and not in all respects, yet. My sleep con- 
tinues more or less unreliable, but, in spite of that, 
there is a decrease in nervous irritability,—which is a 
great comfort, both to me and to the good folks I live 
with. In short, my belief is confirmed, that it is the 
gracious purpose of our loving Father to restore me, 
in His own good time, to physical health. .. . 

Our meeting here is very small, and has no highly- 
gifted brethren; besides, we speak divers tongues and 
do not always perfectly understand each other. But, 
all the same, each Lord’s day morning we do marvel- 
ously realize the presence and blessing of a loving, 
living Lord; and what could we ask for more? Every 
Monday afternoon, too, we have an English meeting, 
to which friends gather from various towns along the 
lake-shore, for the study of the Word. We have had 
a very interesting time in this meeting over the Hpistle 
to the Romans. 


TO HIS BROTHER. 


MonTREUX, March 26, 1884. 


. . . Lam very well, except that my sleep continues 
defective, which prevents me from gaining nervous 
strength, as I am sure I otherwise should. But I feel 
confident that when I get away from here, and snuff 
the salt of the ocean once more, there will be a marked 
improvement. For that reason, I am not sorry that our 
days in Montreux are numbered. The Lord willing, 
we expect now to leave for London, Wednesday or 
Thursday of next week... . 

You ask me what I think I had best turn my hand 
to, when I get through with my long holiday, and I am 
forced to reply that I have not an idea. I believe I 


‘\ 


184 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


am spoiled for literary work, unless it be of some purely 
hack kind, in a newspaper or elsewhere, which would 
be as legitimate a way of earning a living as breaking 
stones. What I mean is, that if I undertook to ‘look 
into my heart and write,’ as Longfellow enjoins upon 
authors, the product would certainly not be such as 
could have any cash value. For mercantile business, I 
never have developed any talent; but no saying what 
I may yet do! All the same, I had to smile at your 
amiable suggestion, that I could be useful to you as a 
sort of counselor. But, John, I do have the firmest 
confidence that something honest will turn up for me 
when the time comes. When I look back and see how 
our way has been opened for us, I cannot doubt nor 
feel anxious. 


Leaving Montreux at the beginning of April, the 
party traveled, without stoppage, to London, and made 
a stay of some weeks in the great city, having excellent 
lodgings in Horbury Crescent, Nottinghill Gate. The 
change into ‘the bracing air of England,’ as he de- 
scribed it, was of notable benefit to Gray. ‘Almost 
from the first night,’ he wrote, ‘I have been sleeping 
better—I might almost say luxuriously—and in every 
other respect I am feeling better, as a consequence. It 
really seems as if my old frame were, at last, getting 
satisfactorily tinkered and put together again.’ Among 
the letters which he wrote from London was one to his 
father, containing the following passage : 


I do indeed feel the kindness of God to you, my 
dear parents, as among the choicest of His blessings 
and mercies to myself. When I think of the way in 
which He has spared you to us all so long, in quietness, 
comfort and happiness,—independent of all men and 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 185 


dependent only on Himself,—my eyes fill with sweet 
waters and my heart melts in gratitude. And if it 
should be His will that we should all be in the body 
for a little while longer, and thus permitted to meet 
again here below, will we not rejoice in praising and 
exalting together His blessed and holy name? For, 
surely, He is good. My life, both physically and 
spiritually,—both for time and eternity,—He surely 
has ‘redeemed from destruction ;’ while of a truth, as 
a family, we can all say that ‘He crowneth us with 
loving-kindness and tender mercies.’ And, above all, 
when I think of ‘the exceeding riches of His grace’ 
that he has made ours in His Son,—the unspeakable 
revelation of His love to us, that we have in that 
Blessed and Holy One,—I feel constrained to that 
‘continual offering’ of praise of which the apostle 
speaks (Hebrews xiii: 15); which is assuredly the 
fitting service of those who have gone forth to Jesus, 
without the camp, bearing His reproach, and who have 
in this world no continuing city, but are seeking one 
to come. May the Lord keep us all, while we praise 
Him for His goodness to us, with true pilgrim hearts 
in our breasts! If His grace can thus make us sing 
with joy on the road, what will it be to be with Him— 
to see Him as He is? 





The stay at London was prolonged into May; then 
Edinburgh and the friends there were visited, and, on 
the 7th of June, the family sailed from Liverpool for 
home. Twelve days later, David wrote to his brother 
from Buffalo, to announce their arrival, to say for him- 
self that he was ‘feeling first-rate,’ and to promise a 
speedy visit to Detroit. 

He came home quite undetermined as to plans for 
the future. His interest in the Buffalo Courier had 
been sold before his return, through the agency of his 


186 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


brother, and he regarded his connection with journalism 
as wholly severed. It was an unspeakable relief to 
him to feel free from what had been, for many years, a 
most wearing yoke of bondage, to his spirit and his 
body alike. The proceeds of the sale of his stock in 
the Courier Company had been profitably invested at 
Detroit, in the business of his brother, and whether 
that city or Buffalo should be made his future residence 
was the question now uppermost in his mind. His 
father, mother, sister and brother were in one; the 
friendships and acquaintanceships of his life were 
chiefly in the other. For his own part, he rather 
feared the strong attractions of the latter character 
which drew him towards Buffalo. His past life in that 
city, with its ambitions, its social activities, its political 
agitations, had been a life of worldliness, in his present 
view of it, which he looked back upon with a certain 
loathing, and the possibly surviving influences from 
which he dreaded to place himself under. He foresaw, 
moreover, an incongruity between his old relations to 
Buffalo and the new relations that he would need to 
form, which might make itself unpleasantly felt. He 
expressed himself partly on the subject in his letter to 
his brother, written the day of his arrival in Buffalo: 


Friends, many, devoted and affectionate, crowd round 
us here, and already I have assurances that employment 
of some suitable kind will be forthcoming, soon, if we 
will but stay in Buffalo. But these good people do not 
yet realize that Iam no longer the David Gray they 
knew, and that as soon as they find out what a different 
world I am now in, they must lose interest in me. 


Thanks be to the Lord Jesus, I do feel myself a 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 187 


stranger in these scenes, in which I was once a familiar 
dweller; and I look to Him to keep me, amidst all 
seductions and attractions they may present, in some 
measure faithful to Him. And I am quite content to 
wait till His mind and will are made apparent, as to: 
our future. 


The considerations which favored a continued resi- 
dence at Buffalo, having reference more especially to. 
his own employment, and to the future prospects of 
his family, prevailed in the end, and a new home was 
settled in the autumn of 1885, on West Utica street, 
exchanged later for one on Summer street. Of the 
quiet life which he led after this settlement, even in 
the midst of the presidential canvass which placed his. 
friend, Grover Cleveland, at the head of the national 
government, he wrote October 13th: 


As yet this easy, vegetable existence does not worry 
me, though I foresee that some occupation will ere long 
become a necessity for me. For the nonce, as to this 
there are no new developments. Pretty nearly all my 
friends are plunged over head in politics, and little else. 
will be thought of till after election. Whenever I 
want to realize a truly luxurious sensation, I only need 
to recollect how I should be feeling and perspiring,,. 
about now, had I not been delivered from that sort of 
thing. Thanks be to God! 


After the election he wrote: ‘I feel satisfied that a 
good thing has happened to the country in Cleveland’s 
election. . . . Depend upon it, he will disappoint the 
spoilsmen, but not those who want better government.’ 
For the sake of the country, and as a friend of Mr. 
Cleveland, the result of the election pleased him ; but of 


188 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


personal interest in it, as a party success, he had none 
whatever. ‘Strange,’ he wrote, ‘that the result 1 
fought so hard to bring about for twenty years should 
now, when realized, be a matter of not the slightest 
consequence to me. When a man has been taken into 
the Vanderbilt family he doesn’t set much store by a 
ticket for soup.’ There was talk among some of his 
friends of an official place for him, under the new 
administration at Washington, and it was well under- 
stood that President Cleveland felt cordially inclined 
to encourage the proposal. Indeed, there is extant a 
personal letter from the President to Gray, which left 
no doubt of his disposition. But David had reached a 
state of feeling which he expressed in writing to his 
brother on the subject: ‘I could touch no office that 
carried with it any political obligation;’ and so he 
declined, gratefully, all suggestions of that nature. 

At the same time, he had a great longing for some 
continuous and regular employment. He tired of 
idling, and his income was narrow, without personal 
earnings to reinforce it. But such employments as he 
could venture to undertake were not easily found. He 
was able to put very little strain upon himself, either 
in labor or in excitement, without breaking under it. 
Thus two years and more passed, after his return from 
abroad, before the occupation that would fit his strength 
and fill his time was discovered. Meantime, he under- 
took some occasional tasks, like that of preparing 
editorial matter for a monthly trade journal—the Real 
Estate and Builders’ Monthly—which he did for a 
time and very happily. ; 

At one time he wrote to his brother—May 22, 1885: 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 189: 


I have thought, if other things fail, of establishing 
myself in an accessible office, and advertising to do. 
any and all sorts of literary job-work,—writing business 
pamphlets, advertising matter, revising and correcting 
manuscripts, translations, ete. Do you think I could 
make it go? I need not say it is rather dreary busi- 
ness, waiting as I have to do; but I feel assured that 
He who took me out of journalism will see that I don’t. 
have to go back into it again. I suppose I could get 
an editorial place any day; but I shudder at the 
thought. 


At length, in November, 1886, an appointment came 
to him which met his wishes in an admirable way. He 
was chosen Secretary to the Board of Commissioners of 
the State Reservation at Niagara—a board entrusted 
with the care and management of the lands lately taken 
by the State of New York for the preservation of the. 
scenery of Niagara Falls. The commissioners were 
most of them his personal friends; the duties of the. 
office were light and pleasant, and it was detached 
from partisan politics by the nature and constitution 
of the board. David accepted the appointment with 
ereat pleasure and was happy in it, until the following: 
October, when the secretaryship of the Park Com-. 
mission of the City of Buffalo became vacant and was 
tendered to him. This latter appeared, for several. 
reasons, to be the preferable place, and he resigned 
from the Niagara board to enter it. But the commis- 
sioners of the Niagara Reservation requested a con-. 
tinuation of his service with them until the end of the 
year, and the labors of both secretaryships were thus. 
laid upon him for two months. It was a fatal over- 
taxing of his strength. A man in health might easily,, 


190 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


perhaps, have gone through the double task, and it is 
probable that David himself had no thought, at the first, 
that he was putting an overstrain upon his weakened 
powers. He had made a great gain of strength, ap- 
parently, during the preceding summer. Having spent 
some weeks with his brother and friends at Oak Camp, 
in Michigan, they thought him better than he had been 
for years,—more interested in things,—more capable of 
enjoyment,—more like his younger self. But the terms 
on which nature gave him this better state of feeling 
were evidently very rigorous, and unwittingly he vio- 
lated them when the duties of the two offices came 
upon him. There were two annual reports to prepare ; 
there were journeys to New York and Albany to make ; 
there was the slight friction of adjustment to new 
duties and the little anxiety of a quittance from older 
ones—and, altogether, they proved too much. After 
the strain had mostly ended and the mischief had been 
done, writing in January, he told how it had affected 
him. 


In getting through the double work devolved on me 
for a month past, and not yet completed, I have been 
obliged to practice the most rigid economy of my 
physical and mental strength. For I soon found, to 
my alarm, that my old nervous and cerebral symptoms 
were recurring under the pressure, and I have been 
just feeling my way along, like a blind man, not 
knowing the moment I should strike something hard. 
Thank God for His merey! I have been kept up 
through the worst of it and I feel quite confident as to 
what remains. I went to New York, the last days of 
December ; but even then did not get rid of the Niagara 
end of my load, since I was requested to stay on another 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 191 


month. ... Remember, the work I am making such 
a fuss about would n’t ruffle a hair of an ordinary busi- 
ness man; but there are times when even the grass- 
hopper is a burden, and that has been my plight. 


But he had not yet felt the worst of the effects of 
his overwork. They came later, after another journey 
to New York and a final clearing away of the duties 
of his Niagara secretaryship. Then the signs of. break- 
ing began to show themselves in him, very rapidly. 
Early in March it became apparent that he must give 
up his work entirely, for a time, and he received a 
leave of absence from the Park Commission. For 
some days he remained at home, weak and shaken, and 
apprehensive of a more helpless prostration, but always 
cheerful and unrepining. He had never, from the 
beginning of his invalidism, made any complaint. Mrs. 
Gray has written: ‘I never heard a murmur escape 
his lips ; no matter what came, it was all right. ‘God 
knows best ”—‘ His will be done.” The last Monday 
morning, after he had eaten his breakfast, propped up 
with pillows in bed, as I took away the tray and 
arranged his pillows, he looked up at me and said: 
“It’s all mercy and goodness, Mums,—mercy and 
goodness.” He had complained to me during the pre- 
vious week that he could not pray; but this morning 
he told me joyfully that he had thawed out morally— 
he could pray again.’ 

His mind was clouded, somewhat as it had been in 
the first stages of his illness in 1882; and yet he kept 
a curious mastery of himself. Attempting one day to 
tell something, he lost the thread, and, after hesitating 


192 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


a moment, being unable to finish, he laughingly said: 
‘Well, Gray, why don’t you go on?’ , 

Something more than rest being evidently needed 
for his recuperation, and the ocean having been always. 
his best physician, a voyage to Cuba was determined 
on, and his faithful brother came from Detroit to be 
his companion in it. The following, from the pen of 
the brother, Mr. John 8. Gray, tells what remains of 
the sorrowful story : } 


We were ready to start just when the great ‘bliz- 
zard’ of March 12th blocked the eastern roads and 
stopped all travel. This delayed us until Thursday, 
the 15th. David was thankful for the storm that 
gave him a reprieve, and kept him longer at home. 
We were assured that the Delaware, Lackawanna and. 
Western Railway Co. would send a train through, 
leaving Buffalo at 5 p. M., with a sleeper attached ; 
but, on arrival at the depot, we found they were unable 
to get a sleeper ready until the 9 Pe. M. train. So we 
were obliged to take the long drive back to the house. 


Calling another hack, we were surprised to find it had - 


just returned from a funeral, well furnished with the 
signs of mourning. David asserted that, if we were: 
superstitious, we might conjure: some meaning out of 
these unexpected fittings, but finally agreed to the con- 
viction that if we heard of the 5 P. M. train running off 
the track, we would know why there was no sleeper on. 
it, and we not permitted to go by it. 

At the house he passed two hours in a sleep by the 
fireside. When the time came to be off we roused him 
against his inclination, and said, ‘Don’t you want to go 
to the depot?’ ‘Show me the man,’ he said, ‘ that. 
wants to go to the depot.’ ‘Yes, but you are going to 
take a sea-voyage, which has always done you so much 


good in like circumstances, and you surely want to do 





\ 
+ 


LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 193 


what is to improve your health.’ ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ 
he said, and rose with some effort to take the painful 
farewell from each of the home circle. 

We were soon in the sleeper, and the fatal journey 
began. We talked pleasantly together until it was 
proposed to retire. ‘John,’ he said, as he was helped 
to his bed, for he was tired and weak and needed a 
good deal of help, ‘you are a perfect brick—a p. b.’ 
He dropped asleep immediately in his berth, No. 4, 
opposite to mine. Sleep was out of the question with 
me, and I often looked to find him resting quietly. 
Hour after hour passed, and he did not move. Stop- 
ping at a station, shortly after midnight, I heard rail- 
road hands under the car testing the wheels, and one 
said, ‘ These trucks are not fit for a freight car.’ The 
words were not at all soporific, and when we started up 
again, the train flew round curves at a high rate of 
speed, and the car pitched from one side to another 
more violently than a ship in a rough sea. An extra 
lurch came, a crash of broken glass and _ timbers, 
darkness, shrieks and screams—all in an instant,—and 
the car lay on its side in the bed of an old canal. Be- 
ing on the under side, I was covered with débris, and 
unable to move for some time. As I began to work 
myself loose and climb up, to where I thought to find 
David, I called him again and again, then groped in 
the darkness for him, all to no avail. An alarm was 
given that the car was on fire, and, from a lamp that 
had not been extinguished, the flame was spreading ; 
but, fortunately, some one managed to put it out. An 
open window overhead was the only means of exit, and 
through that the passengers made their escape. 
Perched by the side of the window, I sat calling for help 
to rescue my brother, but none came for a long time, 
nearly every one being disabled. Efforts were being 
made, with snow, to put out a fire that was spreading 
in the wreck of the day-coach ahead of us. When it 
was seen to be impossible to stop the spread of the 

13 


194 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


flames, the most active of the workers came running 
back, and asked if every one was out of the sleepers. 
I called to him that my brother was in the wreck, and 
immediately our rescuer, who was Dr. P. L. Graham, 
of Lobo, Ont., entered te ear and found him, but was 
unable to move him till more help came. Farmers 
from the neighborhood began to arrive, and, with their 
help, David was borne out on a mattress and laid upon 
the snow. But his pulse was so low that Dr. Graham 
pronounced him dying. A little spirits strengthened 
the pulse, and we were assured that there was little 
probability of immediate death. The flames spread 
rapidly, and, in a few minutes after David was out of 
the wreck, the entire three cars were in a sheet of flame. 
The telegraph wires overhead were melted by the heat, 


and, as they began dropping about us, we hurriedly 


moved him away. 

The time of the accident was about 2.45 a. M. of 
the 16th inst., and it must have been 6 A. m. before 
the rescuing train came up from Binghamton. We 
quickly got him up the twenty-five foot embankment 
and into the car. The physicians who came with the 
train could find no outward signs of injury, but were 
so busy doing what they could for those whose wounds 
could be helped, that no critical examination was made 
till we reached the hospital in Binghamton; then it 
was. decided that his injury was concussion of the 
brain. No word, look or sign of consciousness ever 
came from him, and, though no outward injury was 
manifest, it was easy to see that he was beyers the 
hope of recovery. 

At midnight of the 16th, his wife and Mr. J ohn G. 
Milburn arrived from Buffalo. In addition to them. 
was Dr. Graham, who had proved an invaluable friend 
from the first and who remained with us to the last. 
The hours of watching at the bedside were only varied 
by frequent changes in his respiration or temperature, 
which all too surely foretold the fatal end. 


4 





LAST YEARS AND DEATH. 195 


Warm-hearted citizens of Binghamton came often, 
to offer their services and sympathies, and we cannot 
forget their kind words. Sunday evening, while hos- 
pital physician Dr. W. A. Moore was making his regu- 
lar visit, we noticed a sudden change. The sun was 
setting in a clear sky, for the first time since the great 
storm. The asylum to the east of Binghamton, and the 
hills about it, were lighted up in golden tints, making 
a scene from the window, near which David lay, of rare 
and radiant beauty. His eyes were closed to all earthly 
scenes; but we thought, when the last faint glimmer 
of daylight disappeared, as he quietly passed away, 
that they were but opening to the more radiant scenes 
of a brighter and better world of immortality. 

It was 8.387 Pp. M. when he breathed his last, and on 
Monday we returned to Buffalo with his remains, ar- 
riving at the home on Summer street exactly one 
short and eventful week from the time he was watching 
at the window for my coming. 


CHAPTER IX. 


ESTIMATES. 


Davip Gray died in the faith that God had or- 
dered his life and ordered it wholly for the best. He 
believed, with no doubting, that the gracious hand of 
a Divine Father had led him, with wise and loving 
purposes, through all the turnings of the way, from 
his cradle to his grave. Is there one of us who will 
question that faith? And yet—David Gray was worn 
to death by a yoke which his neck was never fitted to 
bear. He spent his life in a calling which did not 
exercise the best of his gifts and did not satisfy the 
highest of his aspirations. How inexplicable it is! 
Judging humanly, one would say that he belonged to 
Religion or to Letters, or to both, and that the affairs 
of the forum, of the market-place and of the street, 
which daily journalism has to deal with, were alien, 
altogether, to the ends for which his temper and his 
genius were shaped. He lifted journalism, it is true, 
to a higher plane, so far as one example might do it. 
He kept one newspaper clean, while springs of filthi- 
ness were breaking open in so many; he gave it a qual- 
ity and a tone which have not been common enough in 
our press to pass without note. That was the worthy 
outcome of a laborious life; but it does not seem to be 
an adequate remainder from David Gray. It was 





| 
| 
‘ 


C—O ll —Fa PE 


a ee 


ESTIMATES. 197 


impossible to know him and not want more,—more of 
a lasting product from the brain and heart that he 
wore out on things of the hour and the day. 

Of course, it is worse than futile to mar the memory of 
a life that has been well lived and of work that has been 
nobly done with ‘ifs’ and idle guesses of what might 
have been. But how can one put away the thought of 
some different career, that will rise in a case like this ? 
The thought of David Gray as a religious teacher, for 
example! Not as a preacher, in the common sense— 
for his fine gift of speech had little oratory in it—but 
as a teacher of religion,—as a teacher of the primitive 
truth and practical life of Christianity, apart from all 
ecclesiasticism and all theology, which came to be, for 
him, the one, only worthy object of human knowledge. 
His fervor and fineness of spirit, his moral delicacy, 
his fullness of sympathy, his many-sided openness of 
nature, his clearness of thought, his pictorial speech, 
and the exquisite coloring that it took from a dozen 
cooperative faculties and qualities of his mind,—they 
could not have failed to be.a powerful influence in the 
religious world, if he had employed them at his prime 
as he strove to employ them in his feeble later years. 

Or, if we think of David Gray as living the life 
which invited him most in his youth,—the life of a man 
of letters, simply and wholly so,—it seems to be certain 
that the world would have been something richer than 
it is, by reason of the work he would have done in it. 
As a poet, it is not to be expected that he would have 
found a place in the choir of the supreme singers. He 
produced nothing which would seem to promise so 
much as that. Yet nothing that he did produce can 


198 : BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


fairly be held to denote the limitations of his genius ; 
for, after his powers matured, there was no year of his 
life when the poet-soul in him was not under fetters, 
forged and riveted upon it by inexorable circumstances. 
If there is one avocation in life more deadly to poetical 
inspiration than another, it is the avocation of political 
daily journalism; and David Gray was delivered to 
the slavery of the political press for more than twenty 
years. It was only as a fugitive, so to speak, that he 
ever ran for an hour into the fair fields where visions 
may be seen and songs may be sung; and it is amazing» 
that he was always able to bring back from those stolen 
flights so much melody and beauty as he did. 

Of spontaneous poetry—of poetry that is a natural 
blossoming of moods and thoughts—he wrote almost 
none after his twenty-third year. Nearly all that we 
have from him, except the earlier verse, was written, 
as he said in one of his letters, ‘under pressure of a 
necessity, begotten by some occasion,’ and because he 
was ‘cornered into it!’ It is useless to say that he 
could not write otherwise while treading the inexorable 
mill of the daily newspaper; and the few years of his” 
respite from it, when abroad, were scarcely more favor- 
able. Those years of travel were the years of his lib- 
eral education. He was an itinerant student, with the 
old world at large for his university,—having matricu- 
lated at no other. It was a time of his life which he 
gave, purposely, to an hungry absorption of ideas and 
emotions, as well as to a diligent study of languages, 
of literatures, of countries and of people. It was not 
a time for productive work. 

Yet he did produce in that time a body of writing 





ESTIMATES. 199 


which is the one adequate and satisfying performance 
of his pen. The series of letters that he wrote asa 
traveling correspondent, for current publication in the 
Buffalo Courier, and which fill the volume ‘appended 
to this, are really unique of their kind. For the most 
part, they relate to the very commonplaces of European 
travel,—to scenes and things which are pointed at in 
all the guide-books, and which have been ink-spattered 
by the tourists of many generations. But one reads 
them as if they told the story of a new world, first- 
visited and freshly described. The landscapes, the 
cities, the monuments, the legend- and history-haunted 
places of Europe, are set before us like new discoveries. 
It is as though one had visited them who was able, with 
the strong breath of his enthusiasm and imagination, 
to blow away the dust of commonplace sentiment which 
settles so easily on the highways, and to uncover freshly, 
again, the whole beauty and venerableness and poetry 
that are underneath it. 

There is no conscious fine-writing in these letters,— 
no working of emotions for display,—no elaborated 
description for description’s sake. But the perfect 
word in unfailing perfect use; the epithet which is a 
picture rolled small; the phrase that moves one’s feel- 
ings as though it had struck a secret spring; the glint 
of humor that is like a smile on an eloquent face,—can 
we find in English literature another composition of 
their kind that is so jeweled with these exquisite 
things? ‘Twenty years ago, the Letters of Travel had 
their ephemeral publication in newspaper print, were 
read in a circle comparatively small and outside of the 
critical world,—were admired and remembered by a - 


200 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


few. If their quality were common, that would natur- 
ally have been their end. But, being what they are, 
they could not rest in such burial. Literature was 
wronged by it; the economy of letters was violated in 
their loss. The twenty years and more which have 
aged all the incidents of their story take nothing what- 
ever from the abiding charm that is in them; and so, 
without apology or hesitation, they are reproduced, now, 
and given publication in a more permanent form. To 
those who read them they will justify themselves 
quickly enough. Taken as a whole, they represent the 
best of David Gray as a literary artist,—as a poet 
constrained to prose,—and indicate what, under circum- 
stances more favorable, he might have done. 

But, after all, it was David Gray as a man, among 
his fellow-men, in his conversation and daily walk, ~ 
as we saw his face, as we listened to his voice, as we 
caught the benediction of his smile, who was loved and 
mourned by those who knew him. His death was the 
going out of a candle which God had not chosen to 
set on any high place, but which shone on many lives, 
nevertheless, in the community to which he belonged. 
It drew more tears than often fall on even good men’s 
graves. The common grief and the sense of private 
and public loss were tenderly expressed by many voices 
and many pens. ‘This memoir may fitly be closed by 
repeating a few of the affectionate tributes that were 
publicly paid to the memory of David Gray when he 
died. 





The death of David Gray, as other men die, would 
have occasioned profound regret. That death met him 





ESTIMATES. 201 


so unexpectedly and so cruelly, awakes, even in stran- 
ger hearts, the tenderest sympathy. But for those who 
knew David Gray, and loved him as few men are ever 
loved, his death brings a sorrow for ‘the man they 
held as half divine,’ beyond the reach of words. 

As I recall the personal associations of twenty-five 
years, and remember the offices of his friendship, his 
ever suggestive thought, his fine genius, which in a less 
material age had ranked him with the builders of loft- 
iest song, I realize that as beautifully equipped a soul 
has passed away as ever adorns and inspires. 

His journalistic career will be sketched by his asso- 
ciates of the press; yet I will say that, while Mr. Gray 
was ever loyal to his party, and heartily accepted its 
economic theories, his sympathies seemed to me broader 
than any partisan creed. I well remember the first 
time I ever saw him. It was in Paris, when he was on 
his first visit abroad. It was just after the close of our 
war, and that struggle, its causes and its issue, were 
the subject of a long talk at our first interview. I 
shall never forget with what earnest words he held 
slavery responsible for the war, and his rejoicing at its 
overthrow. We spoke of the heroisms which overleap 
the restraints of law in revolutions, for we were on 
suggestive revolutionary ground, and I was much im- 
pressed by his broad philosophy and humanity. 

This sentiment, ‘] am aman, and whatever interests 
humanity interests me,’ underlay all his political and 
personal character. It entered into his daily life, gave 
tone to his professional work, and, when most intense 
in his partisan devotion, the heart of David Gray was 
his Mentor and guide. This is high eulogium, but it 
will be justified by his contemporary journalists of every 
shade of political opinion. Political journalism, which 
owes so much to our friend, was not the most congenial 
sphere for his gifts. His nature craved ‘ the still air of 
delightful studies.” Literature was his natural sphere. 
He had genius, a philosophic mind, and a style pure 


202 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


and melodious. He was a born poet, and his verse 
easily rose to the plane of the highest themes. But 
what words can give even shadowy intimation of that 
social charm which delighted and captivated? His 
simplicity, his geniality, his glowing friendship, and 
that loyalty which was his manhood’s crown, made of 
David Gray the prince of friends and of hosts. Sev- 
eral years ago, a few friends used to meet him on Sat- 
urday evenings in his little home on Niagara street,—a 
home which seemed more regal than the most preten- 
tious palace, for ‘David,’ as his friends loved to call 
him, was its master. One of the group, a kindred 
soul, and most royally endowed, preceded him to the 
shadowy land. Their common friends will ever asso- 
ciate Wright with Gray, in their heart of hearts. 

I have said our friend was a philosopher, but he sub- 
ordinated his philosophy to a simple Christian faith. 
Instead of the grandeur of churchly ritual and priestly 
ceremonial, he sought a service simple, meditative, 
without intervention of priest in stately temple, and 
found it among the Plymouth Brethren. Here he was 
teacher and scholar. Here, and in his daily commun- 
ings, his spirit was brought in closest sympathy with 
his Master. If there was an element of mysticism in 
his religious life, it was proof of his kinship with those 
rare souls who, in all the Christian ages, have sought to 
unify their spirits with the Divine. 

David Gray’s home! How profound and universal 
the sympathy with that loving and heroie wife, in all 
her sad errand, to the end, to the end! 

David Gray was as a son to Buffalo. He gave to her 
service the vigor of his manhood, and in that service 
he lost it. He interwove ‘sweetness and light’ with 
her noisy commerce. He, in large degree, wedded her 
to the humanities. She will gratefully remember her 
son.— James O. Putnam. 


ESTIMATES. 2038. 


DAVID GRAY. 


While, on the anvil of his life, 
The daily blows rang full and strong, 
Forging the hot iron of his thought 
Into the plowshare or the knife, 
Whate’er his busy hammer wrought, 
His wearying toil, or short or long, 
He lightened with a song. 


Men say the toiler’s task is done, 
And soon his work they may forget— 
A rusted share, a broken blade, 
Cast to one side at set of sun, 
All that is left of what he made: 
But, now the sun is fully set, 
His singing lingers with us yet. 
—Allen G'. Bigelow. 


With genius of a high order, keen intellect, tender 
sensibility, fine moral sense, high ambition, untiring 
industry, conscientious devotion to duty, all consecrated 
and subordinated to enlightened religious convictions. 
—a ‘pure and radiant’ soul was David Gray..... 
Amid the record of even the selected spirits who are 
continually ‘falling from us,’ Memory must look very 
far back to find one who was ‘loved with such love, 
and with such sorrow mourned.’—Jabez Loton, in the 
Bulletin of the Young Men’s Christian Association. 


Mr. Gray’s editorial style was perfect. With him, 
the composition of a leader was a fine art. The infi- 
nite pains he gave to the minutest details of this work, 
together with the other responsibilities of the position, 
while it made many of his productions sufficiently fin- 
ished for a magazine article or an essay for a review, 


904 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


kept him at his desk at hours when he should have been 
at rest, and seriously impaired his health. As a reader 
of exchanges he was unequaled. Mr. Gray could go 
through a pile of newspapers and find in them inter- 
esting matter that everyone else had overlooked. One 
of his most marked characteristics as a newspaper man 
was his infinite patience. To those who worked by 
his side it was a constant marvel. L[legible manu- 
scripts, which proved too much for the tempers of his 
subordinates, would go to him and be put into shape 
for the printer with painful care, but without the 
slightest indication of disturbed serenity. A constant 
stream of visitors, with and without errands, poured 
into his office, and were always graciously received. 
Even after the most tedious of them all had gone, he 
never showed to his associates the slightest shade of 
annoyance over the loss of time which they caused 
him. His disinclination to discharge a correspondent 
or other subordinate, who performed his work ill, 
greatly added to the burden of his own duties. His 
forbearance in this respect was perhaps carried to an 
extreme, and his anxiety to avoid hurting the feelings 
of friends or, in fact, anyhody else, was almost a fail- 
ing. Could he have cultivated, at times, a little asper- 
ity, it would doubtless have aided him to escape some 
of the ills of his later years.— The Buffalo Courier. 


It was John Hay, we believe, who said playfully of 
David Gray, that he was ‘the loveliest of his sex’ ; 
and the phrase, in its best sense, was appropriate to 
the man; but it must be remembered that the amia- 
bility it suggests was allied to sterling principle, the 
gentleness to courage, the grace to strength, the poetic 
sensibility to firm purpose. 

There is something simple yet noble in the very 
name of David Gray, that suggests the thought of 


ESTIMATES. 205 


him that bore it; and in his case nature, who does not 
always deal in harmonies, took pains to establish a 
correspondence between a fine, strong spirit and the 
form in which it was housed.—T7he Rochester Post- 
Hepress. 


The death of David Gray has drawn from men and 
newspapers expressions of sympathy and tributes of 
affection and admiration of an extraordinary character. 
To those who only knew this ‘rare soul’ in his later 
years, some of these expressions will seem extravagant, 
but they who knew the David Gray of twenty years. 
ago, and who ever felt the spell of his winning and 
stimulating personality, believe that ordinary language 
is inadequate to describe his peculiar charm, and that 
it is not easy to exaggerate the possibilities of a poetic 
nature and literary taste like his, had they been 
nurtured and aided by circumstances.— The Buffalo 
Commercial Advertiser. 


To do justice to the virtue and talents of our dead 
friend would tax time and space beyond what these 
busy hours can grant. Of a lovely and loving dis- 
position, he was, first of all, a poet. Inconsistent with 
the stern routine of journalism as were his exquisite 
tastes and delicate fancies, the flowers of Mr. Gray’s 
poesy grew thick along the iron track of duty.— The 
Buffalo Haupress. 


David Gray’s was, in every sense, what is called a 
noble life. His was the sort of spirit to which man- 
kind owes much. He wrote with the grace of Lamb 
and the humane humor of the English essayist. In- 
vincibly modest of his own fitness, he let slip oppor- 


206 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


tunities that have made men of half his metal famous 
and influential. Determined, but not dogmatic, he 
carried conviction into every incident of daily life.— 


The New York Star. 


Probably no man living in Buffalo was so widely 
beloved as the kindly, upright, able man who, for many 
years, made The Buffalo Courier one of the great 
journals of the country. No man ever more com- 
pletely impressed his personality on the newspaper he 
edited. No man ever gave to a newspaper the impress 
of a nobler personality. David Gray was a pure- 
minded, generous, kindly man, full of sympathy with 
all that is good, full of energy and industry in the 
expression of that sympathy, and in support of every 
good movement and of the highest ideals of the school 
of politics which his judgment favored.—The Buffalo 
Evening News. 


He was so long a part and parcel of Buffalo; his 
name and genius were so intimately associated with 
her every effort for all that makes a city great, that 
she was justly proud of him, as he was loyally devoted 
to her; nor could the bonds which had so long bound 
them in mutual affection be severed without a poignant 
pang piercing the city’s heart... . Gentle without 
weakness, learned without pedantry, his was a gracious 
courtesy and singular modesty which enhanced his rare 
worth, while his deeply religious heart was ever bowed 
in reverence to Almighty God and the great truths of 
eternity. Cut down like a flower when its fragrance 
is sweetest, David Gray goes to the grave sincerely 
mourned by all who appreciate those qualities which 
ennoble life— Zhe Catholic Union. 


ESTIMATES. Pad Ml 


A rare and interesting study was the character of 
David Gray. He was a manly man, if to possess a 
scrupulously honorable and sensitively honest nature 
could make him so. He preferred to avoid the tur- 
bulence and strife of an active business career, as he 
did a literary career that compelled him to dip his pen 
in the chalice of bitterness, or with the sharpened point 
of eriticism. As an editor he was calm, courteous and 
polished, and of a school that has been well-nigh driven 
out in these rushing and aggressive times. There 
was no pleasure for him in compassing the downfall 
of a foe; he would go much further in an attempt to 
persuade such an one to beafriend. If fortune had 
been more kind to him, he would have been a poetic 
dreamer, drifting along life’s river, only seeing that 
which would satisfy his poetic longings, turning away 
from that which would tend to mar or disfigure his 
dream of beauty and peace.— The Sunday Times. 


He was an honor to American journalism, and by 
his elevated thought, choice diction, and manly, high- 
toned treatment of all topics that came under his 
editorial review, made his paper a model for his con- 
temporaries. He was ever the genial, generous, warm 
and true-hearted friend. His untimely death is a 
public calamity — Buffalo Christian Advocate. 


David Gray is dead; he goes to his grave attended 
by the sincere grief of all who knew the brightness of 
his gifts and the gentleness of his character. The press 
notices of him have been especially appreciative and 
sympathetic. Rarely has a fuller wealth of eulogy 
been paid to any man than has been paid to his memory 
by the journalists of this state. His memory is, indeed, 


208 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR. 


precious, and all who knew and, therefore, loved him 
will say that in his death ‘ there cracked a noble heart.” 
—The Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. 


Mr. Gray was one of the gentlest of men, one of the 
most graceful and able writers the press of New York 
has had, a poet by nature. His friends are legion, and 
many who never had a personal acquaintance with him 
loved him for the manliness of his character, the ele- 
vating tone of his teaching, the gentleness, sincerity, 
nobility of his nature. The death of such a man is a 
loss to humanity.— The Utica Herald. 


POEMS. 


THE Foc-BELL at NIGHT. 


Ty 


Out on the dim and desolate lake, 
Chime on chime falls, measured and slow ; 
Scarce the dull trance of the night they break, 
Sounding so wearily, long and low; 
Telling the hour in its voiceless flight— 
Stirring old thoughts of our dear, dead joys: 
QO, dreary, mysterious night, 
Shadow and fear have at last a voice. 


II. 


Far in a region of dream-delight, 
Fondly I wandered but moments ago,— 
Ah, that knell from the distant night, 
Hanging my dreams with trappings of woe! 
Sadly, solemnly tolling—tolling, 
Floating afar on the misty air; 
Every bell like a dirge is knolling, 


Every chime is a funeral prayer ! 
14 


210 


POEMS. 


III. 


‘Life!’ they cry to the mariner, seaward,— 
What to the slumbering thousands near? 
Father above, do they beckon us Thee-ward ? 

See! I strain thro’ the night to hear ! 
Sadly, solemnly tolling—tolling, 

Dying away on the ghostly air,— 
Every bell for a soul is knolling, 

Every chime is a funeral prayer ! 


Sir JOHN FRANKLIN AND His Crew. 


Toll the saintly minster bell, 

For we know they ’re now at rest ; 
Where they lie, they sleep as well 

As in kirkyard old and blest. 
Let the requiem echo free 

From the shores of England, forth, 
Over leagues of angry sea, 

Toward the silence of the North. 


Half a score of years or more, 
They were phantoms in our dreams ; 
Many a night, on many a shore 
Lit by wan Aurora gleams, 
We have tracked the ghostly band— 
Seen distressful signals wave— 
Till we find dim William’s Land 
Holy with the heroes’ grave. 


POEMS. 211 


Toll the bell! that they may rest, 
Haunting specters of our brain,— 
They for whom her tireless quest 
Love pursued so long in vain. 
Nevermore let fancy feign 
That the wondering Esquimau 
Haply sees them toil again, 
Wild and haggard, through the snow. 


From The Erebus they pass’d 
To a realm of light and balm ; 
And The Terror sailed at last 
Into peace and perfect calm. 
Toll the bell; but let its voice, 
Moaning in the minster dome, 
Change at times, and half rejoice ; 
For the mariners at home! 


THe Crew or THE ADVANCE. 


They spread their ship’s white sails, and like a dream 
Fled outward, on the seaward-sighing breeze ; 

Till soon the memory of a dream they grew 

To us, who gazed afar on vacant sea. 

But night by night, to them, and star by star, 

The skies of the great North-land opened and shone, 
And brighter flashed the icy-jeweled gates 

Of the dim regions, as they neared and entered ; 
And Solitude, who sat there, heavy-eyed, 

A moment stirred, and rose, and shut them in. 


O12 7 POEMS. 


They were the guests of Death, yet feared him not. 
They knew him in his deepest cavern-haunts, 
Touching his marble hand, as if in sport, 

And drawing difficult breath beneath the spell 

Of his most stony eye. Ah! never came 

Into those drear dominions whisper of Spring, 

Or far-off echoed voice of those who dwell 

Down in the land of Summer, which, to them, 

Was even as heaven. The very thoughts they sent, 
White messenger-birds, to southward, failed in flight 
Winging that deathful bar of frost and darkness. 
Nor more to us came token that ’t was well 

With this our venture in the realm of Night ; 

Save haply to some sleepless, listening hearts, 
When Norland winds came wailing down the night, 
A sigh was borne, that Love would start to hear— 
A sigh, mayhap, she well would understand, 

And with quick, tremulous fingers would detach 
From the wild, floating woof of midnight’s music. 


They roamed the chambers of God’s mysteries, 
And in their wondering sight He rallied forth 
The Aurora-armies, flashing, till they seemed 

A dance of angels on the slopes of heaven! 

The unsetting moon lit up with myriad gems 
Valley and berg fantastic ; and the ear 

That ached with depth of silence, caught at times 
Strange consciousness of music from the air. 

It was a night of wildering dreams, till, lo! 
Above an icy cliff the timid Dawn 

Stood, draped in white, unearthly robes, and smiled 
Wan pity o’er them! 


POEMS. 21 


They were guests of Death ; 
But at his very fireless hearth they planted 
The banner of Life—the banner of more than Life— 
Of Life’s crowned monarch—glorious, conquering 
Manhood ! 
And he, of all that band so brave—so true— 
Our mouths are mute as his when we go seeking 
For words that would not wrong his nobleness. 
He wavered not where giants might have wavered ; 
He wrested from the thrice-clenched hand of Danger 
The jewel Victory. 


We thank Thee, God, 
That Thou hast given our hero back. His grave 
Is ours, whereon to weep; nor shall the summers 
Heap moss enough to hide him from our grief. 


To Guten Iris. 


To thee, sweetest valley, Glen Iris, to thee,— 

More fair than the vision of poct may be, 

And beyond what the artist may dream, when his eyes 
Are dim with the hues of the loveliest skies ; 

To thee and thy forest, whose foliage forever 

Is fresh with the mists of thy light-flashing river ; 
Thy flowers that are swayed in the softest of airs; 
Thy birds in the greenest and deepest of lairs ; 

Thy lights and thy shadows, thy sweet river’s fall, 
That sings into slumber or reverie,—all, 


214 POEMS. 


_ To thee, though our lips cannot utter a word, 

Our spirits are singing in rapture unheard ! 

For ’t is part of thy magic—thy beauty-wrought spell— 

What thou whisperest to us we never can tell. 

Sweet Glen of the Rainbow, to thee there are given, 

As fresh as the day when they sprung into birth, 

All the joys and the graces we love most of earth ; 

And the sunlight flings o’er thee the glories of heaven! 

So, The Nameless now drink from thy pleasure-brimmed 
chalice, 

And pledge thee the rainbow-ideal of valleys,— 

A Beulah where thrice-happy mortals that see thee 

Forget all their cares, for thy waters are Lethe. 

And we shout and rejoice that thou art what thou art— 

The beautiful home of a beautiful heart. 


OUTRIVALLED. 


No tale of days divine with love, or starry eves, is 


mine; 

I only know that One was once who made all life 
divine ; 

Whose presence circled to my soul its all of earth or 
skies, — 


Who drew my glamoured sight from heaven, to dwell 
upon her eyes ; 

And Hope (that fell from heaven to hell) up-soared on 
wings of light, 

Till that sweet vision darkly changed, and melted into 


night. 


POEMS. 915 


It came, a whisper—low at first—that she was false 
to me; 

And louder grew the words accurst, ‘ Another, and not 
thee!’ 

They bade me see the signs she wore, howe’er she sighed 
or smiled, 

That told the Eden of my love a paradise defiled. 

And by his spell upon her eyes, his spell on heart and 
breath, 

His bridal sign upon her cheek, I knew the Rival, 
Death! 


I did not rail of broken vows ;—O God! so white and 
shriven ;— 

I watched her life, my star of life, set in its dream of 
heaven ; 

And all the haunted nights my prayer was wild, the 
while I ween 

She could not see my heart at hers, for a shade that 
dwelt between ; 

But gazing past me thro’ the gloom, the light in her 
eyes renewed, 

For ghostly in the dark, without, he stood—the King 
who wooed. , 


He gave her brow the palest pearl, and wildly with her 
hair 

Inwove a thread of heavenly gold, that made her brow 
more fair ; 

The rose of love she wore for him blushed with a crim- 
son flame, 

And in her eyes the fire of life upflickered as he came. 


216 POEMS. 


Then over all there fell a veil, pale, chill, like winter 
breath, 

And forth they went, my love and he, the kingly Rival, 
Death. 


THE LAKE. 


At the night’s most solemn hour, 
When the stars are lost o’erhead, 

And the silence hath a power 
Deeper, thus to darkness wed ;— 

When the lighthouse-lantern keeps 

Vigil, while the city sleeps, 

Circling slowly in the night, 

With its bursts of meteor-light ;— 


Then, although the wind be dead, 
Miles upon the glooming lake, 
Deep within its mystic bed 
Life and motion seem to wake. 
Hour by hour a stir—a sound— 
Rises on the stillness ’round ; 
O’er and o’er, on the shore, 
Breaks that deep and haunting roar. 


Nightly thus my thoughts, as well, 
Sink to motionless repose, 

And the murmur that may dwell 

In the heart (as in a shell), 
Ebbing faint, no longer flows. 


POEMS. 217 


Shadows of approaching sleep 
Fall around me, dense and deep, 
Save whene’er the fitful gleam 
Flashes, of some meteor-dream. 


Half-awake and half a-dream 
Then, in that dim border-land, 

I can watch a stranger stream 
Break on a more haunted strand. 

In my mind, as o’er the lake, 

Life and motion seem to wake, 

As if in the sea-caves of Thought 

Still the tidal Sprrir wrought. 


So must ever be, I ween, 
In the Mind’s mysterious sea, 
Mystic tides, unruled, unseen, 
Palpitating ceaselessly. 
And when Death shall work his will 
In that wave (made strangely chill), 
Will the roar on the shore, 
Ceasing then, be heard no more? 


Evinu BurRItrt. 


They know, who wander in o’erarching woods, 

How spreads the whisper of a coming storm 

From leaf to leaf—from eager bough to bough, 

Till answering miles of forest swing and sway, 

And mock the gathering clouds, and with wild voices 
Call to the hollow Thunder in his lair. 


218 POEMS. \ 


So ran the tremor of a coming storm 

Thro’ the old realms of Europe, when he came 

Across the misty sea, to the Queen-Isle,— 

This mild, but dauntless, eager, large-souled Quixote. 


The doves of peace were fluttering in their nests, 
The gentle olive flung affrighted arms, 

And threw mad leaves, despairing, on the blast— 
All this, when first I saw him. I remember 

He stilled us, gathered troops of boy-Bedouins, 

And thrilled us into silence with his eyes, 

And drew ours into his, with a quaint story 

Of children, brothers, in America. 

Then, sounding the deep wells of Truth and Feeling, 
(These lie in Boyhood’s heart so deep, serene, 
Unruffled, and so clear, they seem not there )— 

He threw great words upon us—spake of Right— 
Right, broken, bleeding—Right, upraised and victor ! 
Truth never seemed so noble as when there 

It fell in living vigor from his lips ; 

Peace never seemed a goddess, till she sat 

Throned on the high, white calmness of his brow. 


The dust of Time scarce falls on such an one. 
The eye as clear, the brain as clear, the soul 
More sharply obvious in its more-worn robes— 
In else, my Boyhood’s memory ’s true to night. 


There is a means whereby a soul, unbowed 

By years, may grow with years but more sublime. 
If one hath placed his feet upon the heights 

Of universal Love, and Truth, and Virtue, 

The envious waves my break themselves upon him ; 


POEMS. 919 


They do but toss new conquests to his feet, 
Whereon he rises higher. Storms of Hate 
May rend the angry skies; they only serve 
To bleach the sea-assaulted cliff to marble, 
That it may gleam, and be, afar, a beacon ! 


JEANNIE LORIMER. 


Oh, bonny Jeannie Lorimer, what glamour has come 
owre ye? 

What sudden wae is this that swims sae watery in 
your ee? 

Your braw white gown came hame yestreen, your bridal 
is before ye, 

Oh, bonny Jeannie Lorimer, what ill have you to 
dree ? 


The birds sing cheery in the wood aboon the Elder’s. 
How; 

The flowers are fairest on its brae, the berries biggest 
erow ; 

But eerie, aye, it seems, to pass the cot sae bleak and 
bare, 

And think on sic a warm fireside as ance was keepit 
there. 

“Tis twelve gude years and mair sin syne—’t was at the 
Martinmas term— 

The neebors a’ plad sair ; but, no—the laird maun hae. 
the farm ; 


220 POEMS. 


Sae, gatherin’ up his sma’ estate, the Elder turned his 
face, 

And took his ae bit callant’s hand, sad-hearted frae the 
place. 

And soon the hares cam’ loupin wild owre a’ the 
garden knowe, 

And cock and pheasant o’ the laird’s ran thick about 


the How. 

A fine bit lad, the Elder’s was—sae blue and gleg 
his ee; 

And weel baith he and Jeannie lo’ed thegither aye 
to be. 


How mony a ploy they had their lanes, what warlds o’ 
nests they kenned, 

What dams they biggit in the burn, and houses with- 
out end ; 

Their lives were like the burn’s twa banks, as tt 
matched and green, 

While childhood, like the burnie’s sel’, ran singin’ 
down between. 

Sair heart had Jeannie Lorimer that day they gaed 
awa’, 

And mony a day, beside, her een were wat when na 
ane saw ; 

For na ane kenned how big a load sae young a heart 
could keep, 

Or how ilk gloaming, at the How, she grat her grief to 
sleep. 

But years draw by, the lass grew fair, in spite the 
bairnie’s woes ; 

The bud cast off the secret worm and bonny bloomed 
the rose. 


POEMS. 227 


Some said that aye the Elder’s lad was upmost in her 
thocht ; 

Her mither scoffed: ‘Wad Jeannie wait, and waste 
her days for nocht ?’ 

For only ance across the seas some word had wandered 
hame, 

That tauld them in some far-off part, wi’ fearsome: 
outra name ; 

And though they say that some do well, and keep their 
fathers’ faith, 

So far, wi’ black and barbarous folk is maist the same 
as death. 

So folk forgot; and in the kirk, at last, the stated 
prayer 

That bore the exiles’ name on high, shook Jeannie’s, 
heart nae mair ; 

And, woman grown, on a’ the Strath, the lads wi’ love 
gaed wild, 

And still she put their offers by; alike on a’ she 
smiled. 

‘There’s mony anither lass,’ folk said, ‘has rued sic 
reckless play ;’ 

But Jeannie didna wait owre lang to tine her market. 
day. 

The favored wooer came, at last; she named the bridal 
hour ; 

And surely love amang the dew ne’er found a fairer 
flower. 

Oh, bonny Jeannie Lorimer, your lover comes to 
own ye, 

The morrow is your bridal morn, and blithe it ought 
to be; 


yee POEMS. 


Then wae for some uncanny thing that surely has 


befa’n ye, 

‘Oh, wae for something in your face your lover mauna 
see ! 

‘The licht was fadin’ yester-e’en, the birds to sleep had 
gane, 

When Jeannie slippit frae the house, and took the road 
her lane— 

Mayhap it was some pensive thocht that led her ower 
the knowe, 

And, cross the stile and down the path that skirts the 
Elder’s How; 


‘Some thocht o’ by-gone days, perchance, for, oh, what 
wrang were thine 

If ae last nicht the morrow’s bride be lassie o’ lang 
syne | 

Here stands the Elder’s cot, its door leans broken on 
the stair, 

And a’ the smiling shapes it kenned gang in and out 
nae mair. 

The summer-house is yonder, yet,—the tree that held 
the swing ; 

But, oh, the waesomeness that clings like mould to 
every thing! | 

Gae hame then, Jeannie Lorimer, the dew is on your 
track, 

Nor risk the sweets o’ life ye hae for them that come 
na back! | 

‘Come back!’ the word was on her tongue, when quick, 
wi breast on flame, 

She heard a foot come round the house,—a stranger 
spak’ her name ; 


POEMS. 228 


She ran, but, oh, nor far she fled, nor long her heart’s 
alarms, 

For a’ he looked sae big and braw, she sprang into his 
arms ! 

He spak’ her name, ’t was no’ the voice, though saft 
and sweet it seemed, 

But something when it ceased reca’ed the music she 


had dreamed ; 
And when she met his saft blue een, their fond licht 


aye the same, 

She kenned, through a’ the change o’ years, the Elder’s 
lad, come hame! 

But wae for them that only ken the joy their lives 
have lost, 

And, oh, for love that only gies its blossom to the 
frost ! 

*And would ye sooth ha’ lo’ed?’ he said; ‘and was 
your heart sae true?’ 

‘The years were lang,’ she sobbed him back, ‘I never 
lo’ed but you!’ 

Then from the How he turned his face, and nane but 
Jeannie saw ; 

Oh, waesome tryst, for Love was there, but Hope 
stayed far awa’ ! 


Oh, bonny Jeannie Lorimer, your wedded years be- 
tide ye; 

Ye’ll gang yon road again, mayhap, wi’ bairns about 
your knee ; 

But nane will see the wraith to walk wi’ waesome een 
beside ye, 

Oh, bonny Jeannie Lorimer, forever, till ye dee ! 


224 POEMS. 


CoMING. 


She said she ’d come in May, but it seemed so far away 
That our hearts grew sick at first to think of waiting 
her so long ; 
And the months were counted o’er, to the day that. 
should restore 
In one rich gift the Spring to earth, to us our light 
and song. 


And Autumn shed its leaves on the wind that comes 
and grieves 
In the wood and ’round the houses, like a ghost that. 
died of woe; 
And the dull, cold clouds, at last, drooped and whitened. 
in the blast, 
Till all the earth lay still as death, in one long dream 
of snow. 


But long ere Spring had filled the earth with sap, or 
thrilled 
The subtle nerves of flowers, or called to swallows 
o’er the main, 
Our hearts had felt the stir of the Spring to come with 
her, | 
And yearned with joyous thoughts to greet our dar- 
ling back again. 


POEMS. 225 


And the snowdrop floated up from the snow its fragile 
cup ; 
And the violets stole the blue of heaven, one morning 
after rain ; 
And the wild anemone met us trembling on the lea,— 
All with the sole sweet words to tell: ‘She is com- 
ing back again.’ 


Fast, fast, O March, fleet past, on thy winter-battling 


blast, 

And, gentle April, linger not beneath thy skies of 
rain ; 

But strew thy scanty flowers, and speed the happy 
hours 


That bring sweet May to earth, to us our darling 
back again! . 





A Marcu ScENE. 


—The time, eleven at night. The scene is this: 
I followed the long glimmer of city lights, 
Now loitering on, a lonesome space in gloom, 
Now, as I neared and passed a shining lamp, 
Starting to note my shadow black and large 
Sweep ’round and forward, far into the night. 
The straggling files of city sentinels 

I followed thus, in a deserted street, 

Whence I could dimly see where lay the lake, 
With its low mutter and moan of restless ice; 
And farther on could hear the quicker crush 
And plash, as mass on mass in dark disorder 
Slid downward in the current. Wildly rose 


Midnight and storm, together, o’er the lake ; 
15 


226 POEMS. 


The very spirit of desolation seemed, 

Up from that long, low stretch of lifeless night, 

To rise on wings of gloom, and darken earth. 

And, oh! the maniac voices of the wind! 

It must be such a wild, wild wail as this 

Goes up to God from His sin-blighted world ! 

With thoughts of these, I walked,—when quick 
there came 

A patter of childish feet along the pavement, 

And underneath my very eyes there grew 

A little thing of rags—a little face, 

That showed a moment like a dream before me, 

Then slid from the pale glimmer of the lamp— 

Rags, pitiable face and all—into deep night! 


The wind is wild and cold now— 
Poor, shepherdless lamb and shorn, 
Why wander from the fold now 
Thy tiny feet forlorn ? 
Hath Squalor cast adrift, to-night, her sorrow-born ? 


The deep of utter joylessness 
Thy darkling life hath trod— 
Thy Life! poor blighted boylessness, 
A dead flower in the sod! 
Will blessed dew or spring avail for such, O God? 


And heaven is dark and boonless 
Above thy clouded brow, 
Midnight is wild and moonless— 
Will’t ever be as now? 
I marvel if my God hath ken of such as thou! 


POEMS. Pia 


Oh! if the heavenly roses 
E’er blossom beneath thee sweet, 
Among the leaves and posies 
(Soft even to angel feet), 
What thoughts of these cold stones across thy dreams 
will fleet ! 


THE Bark oF LIFE. 


*T is the mid-watch of Time, on a mystical sea, 
With the wind of the night in motion; 

Deep sunk is the shadowy land on the lee, 
And the ship is alone on the ocean. 


O pilot, who watchest the boreal star, 
What ship, and where seek ye to moor her ? 
‘°T is the Bark of Life that is bearing afar, 
With a port that none knoweth, before her.’ 


And why do ye leave the delight of the land 
For the wild sea’s realm of wonder? 

‘ By the strong wind of fate all her canvas is fanned, 
And its secret tide rolls under.’ 


And, the bright shore lost, is it long ere again 
To its haven the bark shall be drifted ? 

‘No more shall its blue hills rise from the main, 
Nor an oar, in its calm, be lifted.’ 


But the green glades of youth and its dreams are there, 
With the rapture of song ringing through them? 

‘ And forever the sea and the barren air 
Are met o’er the dim land that knew them.’ 


228 POEMS. 


And the graves that we loved there, too, where the heart 
O’er its beautiful dead sat moaning ? 

‘No voice of the lover shall mingle its art 
With the billow their dirge intoning.’ 


There were farewells kissed, and forevermore 
From ours are the pale lips parted ? 

‘Oh, nought, save its dream, may the past restore, 
Or its pang to the sorrowful-hearted ! ’ 


Enough; but the mid-watch passes apace, 
And, see, o’er the wave, an token : 

O pilot, a smile is on ocean’s face, 
And the trance of the night is broken! 


And star telleth star of the glory to be, 
And the billow is flushed with its warning, 
And, white on the verge of the eastern sea, 
Lo! the feet of the world’s new morning! 


And away where the skirt of her bright robe streams, 
And the shadows have parted asunder, / 

Not the faded shore of our vanished dreams, 
But a fairer, is shining yonder ! 


The orient’s quivering deeps lie bare, 
And the gleam of the stars has fainted, 
Where its glimmering emerald swims in air 
And its wavering lines are painted. 


Then speed where its waiting port shall ope, 
O pilot, thy sure bark steering, 

For, over its far-away hills of hope 
The train of the years is nearing ! 


POEMS. 


All radiant the Future’s fields outspread, 
And closes the Past’s dim portal, 

*Till the sea of Time shall give up its dead, 
And the beautiful be the immortal. 


I heard the Rose make tender moan 
For the quick waning season’s wrong 
That stole the soul of odor from her. 


Then said I: Let it, Sweet, atone, 
That, changed to music of my song, 
Thy fragrance breathes in endless summer! 


—From the German of Bodenstedt. 


On LEBANON. 


Those days we spent on Lebanon, 

Held captive by the sieging snow— 
What bright things are forgot and gone, 

While these have kept their after-glow ! 
It seemed but monotone, in truth, 

That morning gaze o’er mountain mass, 
Our council with the hamlet’s youth, 

The daily sortie up the pass,— 
And, last, your father’s fire o’ nights, 
Sweet Maiden of the Maronites! 


Sometimes the battling clouds would break, 
And from the rifted azure, fair, 

We saw an eagle slant, and take, 
Broad-winged, the stormy slopes of air. 


229 


230 


POEMS. 


And once, when winter’s stubborn heart 
Half broke in sunshine o’er the place, 
We held our bridles to depart, 
Eager and gleeful—but your face, 
It did not mirror our delights, 
O Maiden of the Maronites! 


Bright face! how Arab-wild would glow, 
Through shifting mood of storm or calm, 

Its beauty, born of sun and snow 
Between the cedar and the palm. 

Nor, as I watched its changing thought 
Could alien speech be long disguise ; 

For ere one English phrase she caught 
I learned the Arabic of her eyes— 

The love-lore of their dusks and lights, 

My Maiden of the Maronites ! 


We parted soon, and upward fared, 
Snow-fettered, till the pass was ours, 
And all beneath us, golden-aired, 
Lay Syria, in a dream of flowers. 
Then spurred we, for before us burned 
White Baalbec’s signal in the noon, 
And, ere to way-side camp we turned, 
Twixt us and you and far Bhamdun 
All Lebanon raised his icy heights, 
My Maiden of the Maronites ! 


Yet, still, those days on Lebanon 
As steadfast keep their after-glow 

As if they owned a summer sun, » 
And roses blossomed in the snow ; 


POEMS. 231 


And when, with fire of heart and brain, 
And the quick pulse’s speed increased, 
And wordless longings, come again 
Vision and passion of the East, 
I dream ah! wild are Fancy’s flights, 
O Maiden of the Maronites ! 





A GOLDEN WEDDING POEM. 


Read at the Golden Wedding anniversary of Mr. and Mrs. James 
Goold, of Albany, N. Y. 


I 


O Love, whose patient pilgrim feet 
Life’s longest path have trod; 

Whose ministry hath symbolled sweet 
The dearer love of God,— 

The sacred myrtle wreathes again 
Thine altar, as of old; 

And what was green with summer, then, . 
Is mellowed, now, to gold. 


II. 


Not now, as then, the Future’s face 
Is flushed with fancy’s light, 
But Memory, with a milder grace, 
Shall rule the feast, to-night. 
Blest was the sun of joy that shone, 
Nor less the blinding shower,— 
The bud of fifty years agone 
Is love’s perfected flower ! 


232 


POEMS. 


III. 

O Memory, ope thy mystic door; 
O dream of youth, return ; 

And let the lights that gleamed of yore 
Beside this altar burn ! 

The past is plain; *t was love designed 
E’en sorrow’s iron chain, 

And mercy’s shining thread has twined 
With the dark warp of pain. 


IV. 


So be it, still. O Thou who hast 
That younger bridal blest, 

Till the May-morn of love has passed 
To evening’s golden west,— 

Come to this later Cana, Lord, 
And, at Thy touch divine, 

The water of that earlier board 
To-night shall turn to wine. 





THE Souw’s FAILURE. 


Is the day dead in yonder blood-stained west ? 

And is the summer fled beyond recalling ? 
Idle we sat all day, and were unblest, 

Vain hopes and evil dreams our souls enthralling ; 
Till all is come to nought—the worst and best 

Are even as one—the night is falling—falling ; 
Our hearts have found no thing of what they craved: 


‘The harvest is past, 
The summer is ended, 
And we are not saved.’ 


POEMS. 2338 


Was hemlock in the golden cup of youth? 
That now we sit and mark the cold Death creeping 
‘Over our lives, while yet we feel, in sooth, 
No sleepfulness of Death, but only, weeping, 
_ ‘Suffer his wrong and vainly pray his ruth, 
And rest and shelter from the night-wind’s sweeping ; 
And from its voice ’round us forever raved : 
‘ The harvest is past, 
The summer is ended, 
And we are not saved.’ 


I. 


When I see those little feet of thine, 
Lost am I to know, O sweetest maiden, 
How such beauty’s burden bear they ever! 


II. 


When I touch that little hand of thine, 
Lost am I to know, O sweetest maiden, 
How of wound so deep it can be giver ! 


Ill. 


When I see those ripe rose lips of thine, 
Lost am I to know, O sweetest maiden, 
Why their fruit of kisses yield they never! 


IV. 


When I gaze in those deep eyes of thine, 
Lost am I to know, O sweetest maiden, 
Why they yearn for love, yet never, never 


234 POEMS. 


Vv. 


Look on mine !—O, let this heart be thine, 
Which for thee more truly, sweetest maiden, 
Beats, than other heart shall beat forever! 


Vi. 


List what love has sung for ear of thine; 
List, for lover lips, O sweetest maiden, 
Softer plaints of love shall sing thee never! 


—F rom the German of Bodenstedt. 


DEDICATION IN A LADyY’s ALBUM. 


I think, now, of some knight in fairy times, 

Whose footstep falters on the charméd limits 

Of some enchanted place, where, in the hush 

Of vacant halls, white Silence is uprisen, 

Her finger high uplifted to forbid 

The impending foot; for, Mary, so my pen 

Hath faltered at the white, untrodden threshold 

Of this, thy Book of Beauty. I would fain 

Some worthier hand than mine had broke the spell 

Which sat till now about its golden rim. 

But, as it is, the spell is broken; and these pages— 

May their unwritten vacancy become 

A beauteous garden, where sweet thoughts shall blos- 
som ;— 

A place where dear desires and hopes shall nestle ; — 

A fount, where Memory, mayhap worn and weary, 

In after years shall, bending, drink, and rise 

Thrilled with the wild, wild life of long ago! 


POEMS. 235 


To Miss Ciara Louise KEeLuoae. 


Rare-gifted child of Song, whose tongue has learned 
The magic language of that sunnier land 
Where passion speaks in music—’neath thy wand 
Of Art our hearts have melted, thrilled and yearned ! 
Deeper we drink of that enchanted wine, 
Because the rich Italian draught divine 
Is poured out to us by no alien hand. 
Sing on, fair girl; for other lands than thine 
“Shall hail thy coming; and we say ‘Farewell’ 
To thee, but not to that sweet Voice, whose spell 
Has peopled memory with such singing throngs 
Of fairy echoes. Sing, and we shall tell, 
With rising pride the more thy fame shall shine, 
That thou art still Columbia’s child—and Song’s. 


MuRILLoO’s ‘IMMACULATE CONCEPTION.’ 


Whence is the spell—O, fair and free from guile, 
Thou with the young moon shod!—that binds my 
brain ? 
Is thine that orb of fable which did wane, 


236 POEMS. 


Darkening o’er sad Ortygia’s templed isle,— 
Beautiful Artemis, hid from earth awhile, 
And on the pale monk’s vigil risen again, 
A wonder in the starry sky of Spain? 
Comes the Myth back, Madonna, in thy smile? 
Yea! thou dost teach that the Divine may be 
The same, to passing creeds and ages given; 
And how the Greek hath dreamed, or churchman 
striven, 
What reck we, who with eyes tear-blinded see 
Thee standing loveliest in the open heaven ?-— 
Ave Maria! only heaven and thee! 


New YEAR GREETINGS. 
1860. 


Toll for the dying Year, O midnight bells ! 
Twelve times amid the darkness, deep and slow ; 
The winds are whispering their low farewells, 
The earth is draped, a bier of funeral snow,— 
Toll for the dead Old Year! On many a hearth 
To-night the fires of household joy are lit ; 
And many a home is filled with laughing mirth, 
While happy shadows past the windows flit. 


But, in the night without, the last peal dies ; 
The startled air throbs fainter, far abroad, 
And up the silence of the winter skies 
The dead Year wings its solemn way to God. 


POEMS. 237 


Forever, with its round of eve and morn, 
Forever, with its life on land and sea— 

With all its fleeting shapes and shadows, borne 
From Time, into the past Eternity. 


O Memory! watcher by the bed of death, 
Who treasurest up last words and parting sighs, 
In whom the Past has life and form and breath— 
Who ever walk’st with backward-gazing eyes— 
Tell us what gleanings of the year are thine? =~ 
What hast thou gathered that our eyes may see ? 
Thou art sole heir of vanished Fifty-Nine, 
What has he left,—bequeathed and willed to thee ? 


He scattered flowers beneath the feet of Joy, 
The flush of hope,—the thrill of love divine ; 
Sunlight of heart and bliss without alloy, 
We had them all with thee, Old Fifty-Nine ! 
Nor less to some the old, old ache of grief, 
And tears that all thy sunlight has not dried ; 
And we have seen, although the time was brief, 
How in it men have sorrowed, sinned, and died. 


Much thou hast given, but much is also gone. 
Spring, as of yore, re-clothed the empty bowers ; 

Glad Summer failed not, golden Autumn shone, 
And Winter swept’us bare of all our flowers. 

To many a heart the dower of love was brought ; 
To many a heart there is a grave, instead ; 

And so the pictured woof of Time was wrought, 
And the old story of our life re-read. 


238 POEMS. 


But there is more; the scroll of all thy deeds 
Thine other daughter, thoughtful History, took, 
And he shall thrill who some time comes and reads 
Thy storied wonders in her deathless book. 
For no inert, dull life was thine, Old Year; 
Thy parting footsteps are not echoless ; 
And, up from thy dim charnel, we can hear 
The living issues of the future press. 


The clash of arms awoke thee at thy birth ; 
The clarion, echoing in wild Alpine vales, 
And noise of meeting hosts that shook the earth, 
Came Westward, borne on all thy Summer gales. 
Thy flowers of Spring were fed with battle’s rain ; 
The harvests of long years were reaped in thee ; 
And Destiny has set in thy domain 
The germ of mightier changes yet to be. 


‘Thou shalt not be forgotten; in the line 

Of years and centuries thy name shall stand 
Illustrious and immortal, Fifty-Nine! 

And coming peoples yet shall point the hand 
And say: In such a year, when Freedom pined, 

Prostrate and bleeding with the Austrian chains, 
Once more her flag was flung upon the wind, 

And the free blood of heroes gushed again ! 


Nor less in our own annals, though alarms 
Of gathering ill beset the nation’s way, 
Men shall look back, and see amid thy storms 
The crescent morning of a better day. 


- POEMS. 239 


For brave words said, for good deeds nobly done 
In Freedom’s holy war, that grows sublime 

With its long list of battles, lost and won,— 
Thou shalt not be forgotten in all time. 


Toll for the dead Old Year, O midnight bells! 
But long ere dawn’s returning hours begin, 
Speak from yon towers in longer, louder swells, 
And ring the New Year with its promise in. 
Ring forth a welcome on the frosty air, 
For Hope leads foremost in the New Yeavr’s track ; 
Time’s youngest morn comes flushed with life, and fair, 
And night with all its clouds rolls swiftly back. 


No stain, as yet, of earthly foot is cast 
Upon the future’s pure untrodden snow ; 
Would that no shadow of the evil Past 
Across this threshold of the year might go,— 
But Love and Justice, entering hand in hand, 
To dwell in heavenly temples with us here ! 
And so, as ne’er before, from land to land 
Should speed this message of a Glad New Year. 


dito NIP & 
60. 


The blue-eyed gentian shone with April’s tear, 
The face of June with roses was a-glow, 
And Autumn led us onward through the sere 
And fallen leaves, till, lo! we stand, Old Year, 
Beside thy grave of snow! 


240 POEMS. 


Under the shroud that wraps the world in rest, 
We lay, with thee, the Past that once was ours 
Thy bloom returns not at the heart’s behest, 
But in the book of memory shall be pressed 
Only thy faded flowers. 


Farewell to thee—to thine, and ours, Old Year; 
To days that passed in toil or passed in vain, 
To bright-eyed dreams entombed beside thee here,, 
To hopes that left us when they seemed most dear,, — 

To loves whose fruit was pain. 


"61, 


The bells have rung a requiem; yet once more 
They wake, and flood the air with music’s mirth ; 
And joyful echoes peal it o’er and o’er, 
And the great heart of nature at its core 
Throbs with the New Yeavr’s birth! 


A starrier sky of promise bends serene 
Over the future, pathless and untrod ; 
And life, re-clothed with Hope’s own evergreen, 
Stands like the Christmas-tree we reared yestreen,, 
Hung with the gifts of God. 


O stately daughter—latest born of Time— 
Heiress of good or evil yet to be, 
Go bravely forth, though ill may cloud thy, prime ; 
For History, pausing in her task sublime, 
Expectant waits for thee. 


POEMS. 941 


186 2. 
Grasp the kindly hand of friendship; bid each dark- 


some thought, away ; 
Let the heart speak forth its fullness in the greeting of 
to-day ; 
Beautiful with youth and promise, hope and radiance 
in her train, 
Face to face the New Year meets us, and the world is 
young again ! 


Take us back, O wizard) Memory, to that way-mark of 
the past, 

Where we stood and, gazing forward, gave this friendly 
greeting last ; 

Show again the rising tempest, how it broke the land’s 
repose,— 

How the south-wind, soft with summer, to a dread 
sirocco rose ; 

Make us pale with battle tidings ; take our hearts and 
let them beat 

To the wild and throbbing music of the war-drum in 
the street ; 

Take us back—but, ah! it needs not, while the drama 
of the year, 

Moving still to solemn climax, holds us tranced in hope 
or fear— 

While the flag that drooped at Sumter, flings its eager 
colors forth, 

Beckoning on the looming thunders of the dark and 


wrathful North. 
16 


242 POEMS. 


Hark! the din is hushed a moment; night and winter 
fold the earth,— 

Many a face is bent to listen, by the camp-fire and the 
hearth,— 

Now the dead Year’s dirge has sounded o’er the white 
and sleeping lands, 

And, with folded scroll of history held aloft in shadowy 
hands, 

While the bells’ low vibrant murmur quivers faint and 
far abroad, 

Through the Nation’s stormy midnight, the Old Year 
goes up to God ! 


Grasp the friendly hand, O people! pass the olden 
word of cheer ; 

Close the door one day to trouble, while ye greet the 
new-born Year. 

Mute she stands, and holds the secret of a good or evil 
fate, 

But the sibyl Hope is whispering at the Future’s open 
gate: 

‘Haply joy will come with Summer, and the Winter- 
night will wane, 

And the New Year’s light may smile us back to happy 


e { 9 
peace again! 


18638. 


62. 


As, when a people throng the Monarch’s bier 

Whose evil reign has filled the land with gloom, 

The dirge they chant speaks more of joy than woe,— 
So, at thy grave, dark Year, we say farewell ; 


POEMS. 


But not as when we part with aught beloved. 
Thy face has not been fair, to win our hearts ; 
Fleeting and soon forgot were all thy smiles ; 
Thy shadows stay, to lengthen o’er our lives. 
Thy birth was ’mid the din and storm of war ; 
The glare of battle lit thee on the path 

Where wild-eyed terrors chased thy flying feet. 
Sin’s bitter fruit, the broken dream of love, 
Dead garlands from the wintry hills of life, 
And echoes of a music hushed for aye,— 
These are the gathered trophies at thy tomb, 
Where Memory sits, enamored of the Past, 
With steadfast eyes upon the folded scroll 
Whereon thy name, Dead Year, is writ in blood. 


63. 


But, when the dead king’s infant heir is brought 
And set amid the purple of the throne, 

‘The people read a promise in his eyes, 

And all the land rings musical with joy. 

So, robed in winter’s ermine, crowned with light, 
We give thee welcome, youngest of the years ! 
The Future’s awful portals move ajar— 

Enter: we send the angel Hope before ; 


243 


And where she may not walk, our prayers shall lead. 


Dark-folded is the nation’s Flower of Fate,— 
Touch with thy light and warmth the mystic bud, 
And make it bloom, a glory in all lands. 


Hide with thy snow’s white calm the stain of blood ; 
Heal with thy Spring’s soft balm the wounds of war ; 


244 POEMS. 


Bring Summer, in whose glow the nation’s tears 
Shall pass in rainbow-gleaming mists away ; 

And, greeting thee, our eyes are turned to Heaven, 
O glad New Year, for thou dost come from God ! 


1864. 


Over lands that mutely lie 

Wrapped in snow’s white slumber, 
Under deeps of midnight sky, 

Peals the fateful number. 


Voices of the steeple’s height, 
Tolling joy and sorrow, 

To the Old ye bid good-night, 
To the New, good-morrow ! 


Pass, Old Year,—we shed no tear 
At thy darksome leaving! 

Much is taken that was dear, 
Much is left for grieving. 


Wreath and garland were not rife 
Where thy pathway brought us ; 
Mingled is the woof of life 
Hands of thine have wrought us. 


Deeps of trouble, heights of rest, 
Broke the year’s long level ; 

With us, all the road abreast, 
Angel walked and devil. 


Pass the Old and come the New! 
Let the bells ring bolder! 

All things hopeful, young and true, 
Press the New Yeavr’s shoulder! 


POEMS. " 945 


Underneath her happier star— 
Skies serene and stilly— 
Close the crimson rose of war, 


Blossom forth the lily ! 


Come the New and pass the Old 
Asphodel and laurel, 

Summer’s green and autumn’s gold, 
Be her brave apparel ! 


Come! for through her open gate 
History stoops to enter ; 

And with new-born hopes elate 
Throbs the heart of winter. 


THE Cross oF GOLD. 


I 


The fifth from the north wall ; 
Row innermost ; and the pall 
Plain black—all black—except 
The cross on which she wept, 
Ere she lay down and slept. 


II. 


This one is hers, and this— 
The marble next it—his. 
So lie in brave accord 

The lady and her lord, 


Her cross and his red sword. 


46 


POEMS. 


Il. 


And, now, what seek’st thou here ; 
Having nor care nor fear 

To vex with thy hot tread 

These halls of the long dead,— 
To flash the torch’s light 

Upon their utter night ?— 

What word hast thou to thrust 
Into her ear of dust? 


LY. 


Spake then the haggard priest : 
‘In lands of the far Kast 

I dreamed of finding rest— 

What time my lips had prest 

The cross on this dead breast. 


Vs 


‘And if my sin be shriven, 
And mercy live in heaven, 
Surely this hour, and here, 
My long woe’s end is near— 
Is near—and I am brought 
To peace, and painless thought 
Of her who lies at rest, 

This cross upon her breast, 


VI. 


‘Whose passionate heart is cold 
Beneath this cross of gold ; 
Who lieth, still and mute, 

In sleep so absolute. 


POEMS. 247 


Yea, by this precious sign 
Shall sleep most sweet be mine; 
And I, at last, am blest, 
Knowing she went to rest 

This cross upon her breast.’ 





TO. 7 hi. 


The happy time when dreams have power to cheat 

Is past, dear friend, for me. As in old days, 

So, still, at times, they throng their ancient ways 

And trail their shining robes before my feet, 

Or stand, half-lifted to their native skies 

By the soft oval of white arms, with eyes 

Closing on looks unutterably sweet. 

Then the grim Truth beside me will arise 

And slay them, and their beauty is no more,— 

No more their beauty—saving such as dies 

Into the marble of mute lips, or flies 

With the swift light of dying smiles, before 

The eye that strains to watch can tell, for tears, 

How passing fair it shone—how dusk have grown the 
years. - 





DIVIDED. 


The half-world’s width divides us; where she sits 
Noonday has broadened o’er the prairied West ; 
For me, beneath an alien sky, unblest, 

The day dies and the bird of evening flits. 


*This poem is printed from a copy which has the following note 
appended: ‘Written by David Gray, in 1867, at the Legation in 
Vienna. JOHN Hay.’ 


248 


POEMS. 


Nor do I dream that in her happier breast 

Stirs thought of me. Untroubled beams the star, 
And recks not of the drifting mariner’s quest, 
Who, for dear life, may seek it on mid-sea. 

The half-world’s width divides us; yet, from far— 
And though I know that nearer may not be 

In all the years—yet, O beloved, to thee 

Goes out my heart, and, past the crimson bar 

Of Sunset, westward yearns away—away— _ 
And dieth towards thee with the dying day! 


THe Last INDIAN COUNCIL ON THE GENESEBR. 


The fire sinks low; the drifting smoke 
Dies softly in the autumn haze ; 
And silent are the tongues that woke 
In speech of other days. 
Gone, too, the dusky ghosts whose feet 
But now yon listening thicket stirred ; 
Unscared within its covert meet 
The squirrel and the bird. 


The story of the past is told ; 
But thou, O Valley, sweet and lone— 
Glen of the rainbow—thou shalt hold 
Its romance as thine own ! 
Thoughts of thine ancient forest prime 
Shall sometimes tinge thy summer dreams, 
And shape to low poetic rhyme 
The music of thy streams. 


POEMS. 


‘When Indian Summer flings her cloak 
Of brooding azure on the woods, 
‘The pathos of a vanished folk 
Shall haunt thy solitudes. 
The blue smoke of their fires, once more, 
Far o’er the hills shall seem to rise, 
And sunset’s golden clouds restore 
The red man’s paradise. 


Strange sounds of a forgotten tongue 
Shall cling to many a crag and cave, 
In wash of falling waters sung, 
Or murmur of the wave. 
And, oft, in midmost hush of night, 
Still o’er the deep-mouthed cataract’s roar, 
Shall ring the war-cry, from the height, 
That woke the wilds of yore. 


Sweet Vale, more peaceful bend thy skies, 
Thy airs be fraught with rarer balm! 
A people’s busy tumult lies 
Hushed in thy sylvan calm. 
Deep be thy peace! while fancy frames 
Soft idyls of thy dwellers fled ;— 
‘They loved thee, called thee gentle names, 
In the long summers dead. 


Quenched is the fire; the drifting smoke 
Has vanished in the autumn haze; 
Gone too, O Vale, the simple folk 
Who loved thee in old days. 


249 


250 POEMS. 


But, for their sakes—their lives serene— 
Their loves, perchance as sweet as ours— 
Oh, be thy woods for aye more green, 
And fairer bloom thy flowers! 





COMMUNION. 
Yr 


When the great South-wind, loud, 
Leaps from his lair of cloud, 
And treads the darkness of the sea to foam ; 
When wild awake is night, 
And, not too full nor bright, 
The moon sheds stormy light 
From heaven’s high dome ; 


II. 


Then, while I only keep 
Watch of the sounding deep, 
And midnight, and the white shore’s curving form, 
Wakeful, I let the din 
Of their shrill voices in, 
And feel my spirit win 
Strength from the storm. 


IIT. 


Strength from the wrestling air 
It wins, till I can bear 
To beckon him who waits for me, apart— 
Him, the long dead, whom love, 
Deathless, hath set above 
All other Lares of 
My hearth and heart. 


POEMS. Paya 


IV. 


The house is still, and swept, 

Save where the wind has crept, 
And utters at the door its ery of fear. 

While the weak moonbeams swim 

Down from the casement dim, 

I wait for sign of him: 


Hush! he is here; 


Vv. 


Betwixt the light and gloom 
He fronts me, in mid-room ; 
I stir not, nor a greeting hand extend ; 
But the loud-throbbing breast 
And silence greet him best, 
Beloved, yet awful, guest— 
Spirit, yet friend ! 


Vi. 


He speaks not, but I brook 
In his calm eyes to look, 
And dare an utterance of my dread delight: 
Oh, as in midnights flown, 
Bide with me, thou long-gone ; 
Are we not here alone— 


We and the night ? 


idLs 


Then, gliding on a space, 
He takes the ancient place, 
Vacant so long, a sorrow’s desolate shrine. 


vagy: POEMS. 


Night shuts us in, yet seems 

Lit, as in festal dreams, — 

And the storm past us streams 
In song divine. 


VITI. 


Slips, then, from my sick heart 
Its covering of sad art ; 
Joy rushes back in speech as sweet as tears ; 
Tell me, I ery, O friend, 
Whose calm eyes see the end, 
Unto what issues bend 
The awful years ? 


IX. 


Tell me what view is won, 
From mountains of the sun, 
Over this earth’s unstarred and blackened sphere. 
This life of weary breath 
Vainly one questioneth— 
Oh! from the halls of death 
What cheer? What cheer? 


A FRAGMENT. 


Our home is in the city’s dust and strife ; 
From its too feverish air we breathe our life ; 
Ours is no soft commune with field and sky ;— 
Not ours in depth of summer wood to lie, 

And take from Nature’s ever lavish hand 

The stores of pleasure there at our command— 


POEMS. 


That bread of soul her hallowed teaching gives ; 
That wine of heart, which whoso drinketh lives. 
From all her life and bloom we dwell apart, 
With news of her, alone, to glad the heart. 

To us, her every beauty, pomp and grace, 

The ever new divineness of her face, 

The year’s sweet fall, the coming of her springs— 
All have the strange, sad feel of distant things. 
We cannot watch the flying woof of green 

First fastening on the aspen’s silvery sheen, 
Then deepening where the buds are late and coy, 
Till all the woods are waving, wild with joy! 

Or, when the summer’s deep crescendo tune 

Has grown the full-voiced harmony of June, 

We only hear its far-off echo swell, 

And heart-sick, in the dinful street, can tell 

By the quick pulse, the weary, yearning brain, 
That life and bliss are flooding earth again ! 

. Even now, when, stealing from the autumn woods, 
A mist of dream-land fills the solitudes, 

Only the wind without, that*sinks and swells, 
Sings songs of harvest-home to us, and tells 
How Autumn came and gathered up his sheaves, 


And walks, a gleaner, through the withered leaves, 


253, 


254 POEMS. 


SOFT FALLs THE GENTLEST OF THE Hours. 


Soft falls the gentlest of the hours, 
Whose star is in the blue, 

And comes, across the grass and flowers, 
The angel of the dew. 


So let us forth, dear wife, and walk 
While earth is still and love may talk ; 
For love is of the stars, and gains 

Its luster as the daylight wanes ; 

And earth is sweetest when it lies 
’Neath curtains of the evening: skies, 
To such first happy sleep beguiled 

As comes to the day-weary child. 

The west grows pale, but like the dream 
That brightens the young eyelid soon, 
See, over earth’s calm slumber, beam 
Yon silvery vision of the moon ! 

‘On the far Highlands’ crest of woods 
Its mellow light divinely broods, 

And where the river, calm and deep, 
Spreads like a mountain-lake asleep, 
By dreamy sail and drifting boat, 

A bridge of silver seems to float. 


POEMS. 


* With what sweet discontent the breeze 


Stirs the warm darkness of the trees ! 
And yonder, through their parted gloom, 
How bright, like very marble, loom 

‘The walls, the roof that seems to dome _ 
The little temple of our home! 

*Our home!’ Ah, wife, a word like this 
Upbears so deep a freight of bliss, 

I tremble as it floats from reach 

Even on the current of calm speech ! 
For, when I brought you home to-day, 
Bride of this morn, true wife for aye— 
When I had brought you, unaware, 
Here, where your father lived, and where 
Your childhood dwelt in fairy bowers, 
And told you the old home was ours, 

I felt my life so touch the sky 

It scarcely had been changed to die. 
And now, when all love sought to win 
Is safe in love’s dear realm shut in,— 
In this soft day the moonlight makes,— 
My heart is like the bird that wakes 
(The full orb beaming on his nest) 

And eannot sleep for glad unrest 

And sense of music in his breast, 

Nor wait, that to the dawn be flung 

The song of morning on his tongue. 

So let us rest a moment yet, 

Till yonder star of eve be set: 

This open bower, where best of all 

We list the river’s lapsing tune, 

Sit here—and closer fold the shawl— 


255 


256 POEMS. 


The dew is in this breath of June; . 
And I, my blissful heart to ease, 

Shall be your bard, to-night, and sing 

A song of true love triumphing. 

And if my lady’s heart it please, 

’"T will be that long the silent string 

Has guarded it, a sacred thing, 

For her and for these garden trees. 


POEM 


Read at the celebration of the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of the 
Young Men’s Association of Buffalo, March 22, 1881.* 


The hearts of men throb faster than of yore ; 

We measure time by centuries. no. more ; 

Life, that but loitered, in the ages gone, 

Now, winged with haste and eager-eyed, speeds. on.. 


Our sires can count the summers that have passed. 
Since she, the city of our homes, was cast 

A baby-hamlet on the forest-floor 

Of Erie’s savage and untraveled shore. 

They know how Nature nursed her, standing nigh, 
While lonely waters sang her lullaby ; 

And how the desert blossomed for her sake, 

Wild daughter of the forest and the lake ! 

The years passed on, and Spring, from southern bowers, 
Threw in her lap the wild-wood’s buds and flowers; 


* The circumstances of the composition of this and two other poems. 
written for the same Association are related on pages 74-75, 


POEMS. Dot 


The lake’s cool breath, in summer, gave her health, 
Or brought her dreams when Autumn came by stealth, 
In robes of gold and crimson, through the woods 
Of Canada’s far-stretching solitudes. 

And thus it was, wild Nature nurtured her ; 

And, even when all her borders were astir 

With tumult and the sound of frontier strife, 

She rose from ashes into statelier life. 

Then came a time, when, o’er the waiting land, 
Some wizard surely raised his magic wand : 

Forth from the wave sprang Commerce to the light, 
And spread its myriad glittering wings for flight ; 
The very wind was wealth, and in our streets 

Was poured the treasure of a hundred fleets ; 

Far empires, that had scarce received a name, 

Paid tribute to our city’s rising fame; 

Till the young West, on many a prairie wold, 
Wove her at last a crown of harvest gold, 

And all the lakes, upon their shores of green, 

Sang ‘ Coronation’ as they made her ‘Queen’! 


What marvel if we think of her with pride, 
‘Queen of the Lakes,’ nor less the river’s bride,— 
Enthroned above the wave, from out whose strife 
Niagara leaps majestic into life! 

Gaze o’er her borders, still the visions sees 

That slow-receding wall of ancient trees ; 

But where, of old, the wild-bird sought the pool, 
Now dart the laughing children forth from school; 
And now, when stream the sunset’s level fires, 
Like lighted altars gleam her churches’ spires. 


Nor, only, has her outward life been fair ; 
17 


258 POEMS. 


Look in her annals, for ’t is written there 
How to the brotherhood and zeal of youth 
Was wed the love of knowledge and of truth. 
A blessing rested on the genial rite ; 

And, lo, the ‘Silver Wedding’ is to-night ! 


The night is festive; soul and song divine 

Have filled us, thrilled us, more than flashing wine. 
But, in our joy, one thought—the first of all— 

To those whose long past labor we recall ; 

One thought to them—the band who met of yore— 
But who will meet, as then they met, no more: 

We pledge them in our hearts, though festal din 
May never summon a// the wanderers in,— 

A toast to them! the youth of other years! 

With thoughtful skill, with hope, perchance and fears, 
They laid for us the goodly corner-stone 

Of the fair fabric time has made our own, 

And on whose half-reared pillars we may set 

A dome that haply shall be classic yet ! 

No storied temple Art hath made sublime— 

No fane is ours, rich with the spoils of time— 

But year by year we build, and slowly rise 

The pillars of our temple toward the skies. 

Even now we fan a spark within its shrine 

Of the same fire that rendered Greece divine: 
Already History seeks a refuge here 

To trace her record of the pictured year ; 

Anon has Science found congenial home, 

To dream her dreams, beneath our lowly dome ; 
And Art, the bright-eyed pilgrim from afar, 

Has come and found our portal wide ajar. 


POEMS. 259 


But, look within our temple’s inner hall, 

Where books in serried legions line the wall ! 
They little dream, who lightly enter here, 

To what enshrined mysteries they draw near. 
Listen! a stir is in the haunted air ; 

Low, echoed voices start and tremble there ; 
Dim shapes are forming in the yielding gloom, 
And muffled foot-falls rustle o’er the room. 

A moment since, the dead lay here in state ; 
Now, from their tombs upstarting, and elate, 
Rises the living army of the great ! 

They stand—the bard who sang, the sage who taught— 
Clothed in the immortality of thought! 

Yonder is Shakespeare’s calm and kingly face, 
Still radiant with serene, immortal grace, 

As when, by Avon’s borders, dew-impearled, 
He sang, unconscious of the listening world. 
Here Milton speaks, and lifts his sightless eyes, 
Blind with too dazzling dreams of Paradise. 
Beside him, Bacon smiles upon the shame 

That envy vented on a deathless name ; 

And Scott, the wizard Minstrel of the North, 
Waves, in our sight, his bright creations forth. 
Yonder, to ‘ Nature’s Bard’ the vision turns, 
And on us beams the lustrous soul of Burns, 
Whose song, that ’mid the woods of Ayr had birth, 
Has carried music’s joy through air—and earth. 
Nor such as these, alone; for, thronging fast, 
Up from dim vistas of the farthest past, 

Come poets, heroes of the classic time 

When Rome was young, and Athens still sublime. 
Here, too, apart, amid the shadows, stand 


260 POEMS. 


Statesmen and sages of our native land, 

In the deep magic mirror of whose eyes 

We almost read our nation’s destinies. 

But who may rightly name each noble guest 
Within this new Valhalla of the West? 

Or tell how thought of every clime and age 
Is centered here, the people’s heritage? 


So, each goodly arch and pillar wreathed and fair with 
festive light, 

Full before us stands the temple we re-dedicate to-night. 

On its front we grave the record of the unreturning 
past,— 

Shade and sheen of many summers o’er the tablet 
strangely cast ; 

And prophetic Hopes stand smiling at the portal, as 
they hold 

In our sight the brighter story of the future, half 
unrolled. 

Who may tell how, in that future, shall the columned 
fabric rise, 

Shining fairer in the sunlight, towering statelier to the 
skies ? 

Who shall tell what power may issue, swayed by spoken 
word or pen, 

From its midst to bless the people, and to rule the 
hearts of men ? . 

Hark ! without, the wind is moaning, and the clouds of 
March droop low; 

O’er the hills the lingering Winter trails his ermine 
skirts of snow; 


POEMS. 261 


Yet the wraith of tearful April walks already in the 
bowers, 

And the far-off sun, in secret, thrills the subtle nerves 
of flowers ; 

Birds are flying from the southward, buds are shaping 
in the sod, 

And the Spring is hasting hither, young and beauti- 
ful, from God. | 

So, beneath the night of error, with its winter scarce 
away, 

All the world is waiting, yearning for a brighter, better 
day,— 

For a spring when love and mercy on the highways 
shall be rife, 

And in earth’s unhappy places bloom the asphodels of 
life. 

It is ours to wait and labor—God’s to bring that 
morning in ; ; 

Ours to build, with high endeavor—hope and aim to 
heaven akin ; 

And our temple’s noble summit, stretching upward, 
firm and high, 

Shall be dipt in hues of sunrise when the day breaks, 
up the sky. 


Brothers, met in festive council, surely, forth from 
yonder shrine, 

I can hear a message, whispered, like the Delphic voice 
divine ; 

‘Strong, it tells us, ‘strong for blessing, mighty for 
the help of truth, 

Is the fervid soul of Manhood—is the throbbing heart 
of Youth.’ 


262 POEMS. 


We have read how fierce in battle shone the eagle’s 
~ conquering glance, 
When Napoleon filled his legions with the fiery youth 
of France; 
So, victorious and glorious the issue of the fight, 
When young Manhood flings the gauntlet for the good, 
the true, the right! 
Triumphs, more than flushed the legions of the emperor, 
evil-starred, 
Wait, when Youth shall eu the banner, in the world’s 
‘Imperial Guard’! 
Forth, my brothers, we are summoned, wheresoe’er the 
field may be— 
Where the Wrong is to be vanquished, or the shackled 
Right set free! 
Nor, in duty’s earnest battles, where the spirit burns 
and strives, 
Come the only times for proving the heroic in our lives! 
. When Columbia counts her heroes, think you she can 
e’er forget 
Him—her bravest, though his falchion may not flash 
in battle yet— 
Who, while sounds of gathering tumult float around 
him, from afar, 
By the mute-mouthed guns of Sumter guards the sleep- 
ing fiend of War? 
So, perchance, more great than Valor marching grandly 
to the strife, 
Is the godlike might of Patience, in the silent tasks of 
life. 


POEMS. 268 


Youth’s unselfish, pure devotion, manhood’s high and 
conscious power,— 

When, to these, did duty’s summons sound so urgent 
as this hour? 

O’er the land our evil angels, Strife and Faction, wan- 
der free, 

And men point the atheist finger, O my country, unto 
thee ! 

Troubled, trembling, stands the nation, even as Israel 
stood of old, 

When the foe pressed darkly round them, and the sea 
before them rolled. 

Stars have fallen from out our heaven; night and tem- 
pest are abroad ; 

Dimly burns the guiding pillar of the nation’s covenant 


God :— 

But ‘tis darkest just ere morning, and the day has lit 
the skies 

When the younger, purer spirit of the people shall 
arise ; 


Wide the wave shall roll asunder, and the nation God 
once blest, 

Through the Red Sea of its troubles, shall re-enter 
into rest ! 


A NINETEENTH CENTURY SAINT. 


Beautiful is my darling’s face ; 
And, yet, I know her heart so well 
That, thinking always of the pearl, 
I have not time to praise the shell. 


264 POEMS. 


I care not that with words of mine 
Her eyes’ deep splendor be extolled, 

Nor.any wreath of speech would twine 
Within her tresses’ wavy gold. 

Not mine to praise the Saxon hue 
That on her cheek the rose outstrips, 
Nor see in curving of her lips 

Some Greek ideal born anew. 

Ah, no; far other court is due, 

From such as near her heart may dwell, 
My darling, whom I know so well. 


_ I think (while softer fancies sleep) 
Of those old altar-pictures, quaint, 
Which pure-souled Memling loved to paint, 
Or those that in fair Florence keep 
His fame, as limner and as saint, 
Who, kneeling, painted heaven, and so 
Was named of men Angelico. 
All shut, such reliquaries stand, 
Rich paintings on each folded lid 
That keeps the inner beauty hid,* 
And almost one is stopped to gaze, 
And half—before the doors expand— 
Would lift the censer of his praise. 
But, open! and there straightway beam 
Such glories of the fairer dream, 
All other light is quenched than its. 


* Some of the most beautiful paintings by the old masters are cov- 
ered by folding lids, on which pictures have been painted by an inferior 
hand. ‘ 


POEMS. 265 


Unclouded glows the golden air, 

And ringed with heaven’s own aureole, 

The very deep of Beauty’s soul 
Throbs visible where The Virgin sits. 


So, curtained from the vulgar eye, 
Abides the vision, chaste and fair; 
And though the world may pass it by, 
Or laud its covering unaware, 
O soul of love! O heart of prayer! 
Look inward; for the shrine is there! 


THE CHIMES. 
‘That fatal bellman ! ’—Macbeth. 
I. 


A moment, O Niagara of sound !— 
Tremendous torrent, but a moment hush, 
For this frail city’s sake, and I will crush 
My sonnet in the bud! 
The prayer is drowned 
In sudden seas of din, that burst unbound 
And flood the air to mad distraction full, 
Till night—calm night—is like a turbid pool 
Stirred up from all its inky depths. Confound 
The bellman,—bird of storm, whose perch and bower 
Is in the thickest tempest,—him I hold 
Even as some Mexique idol, gashed and old, 
That dwells in the high horror of his tower, 
i= Among the shrieks of victims ; a grim wonder, 
| Shrined in perpetual heights of blood and thunder. 


266 POEMS. 


II. 


Sweet bellman, grace! I did thee wrong, up there = 
For in thy stormiest clangor dwells a charm 

To stir the drowsy soul with grand alarm— 

To wake in battle thrills the heart’s despair. 
Methinks if one should die amid the tear 

Of these mad bells, the ghost, tho’ all unshriven, 
Would quiver, wild-eyed, on the surging air 

And ride exultant into open heaven! 


Ill. 


Then, oh, to list the peal that drifts afar 

Upon the mute and moveless deep of night, 
When lullaby winds have sung the toil and jar 
Of day asleep, and scarce we know aright 
Whether those sounds we list descend or rise, 
There is so strange commune of earth and skies! 


PoEM 


Read at the Annual Meeting of the Young Men’s Association of Buf- 
falo, February 17, 1862. 


To-day, one mighty master-thought rules in all hearts 
supreme ; 

It leaps to every parted lip; it gives no choice of theme. 

We sit, home-circled, as of yore; we throng in festive 

halls ; 

But, strangely, o’er the glare of mirth, a nameless 
shadow falls. 

If phantom-fingers of the wind but touch the door ajar, 

We start, and hark, through storm and dark, for tid- 
ings of the war. 


POEMS. 267 


No petty, passing strife, to-day,—no feud of court nor 
king,— 

Thus grandly shapes to epic form what future bards. 
shall sing. 

Not lightly sprang the sword unsheathed, to urge a 
paltry cause ;— 

Pale Freedom stood in tears and plead her wrongs and 
broken laws. 

Her banner, stained with martyr-blood, and dust of 
many lands, 

Up through the troublous past she bore, and gave into 
our hands. 

No trivial strife, in sooth; this cloud that veils our 
heaven, sublime, 

Rolled hither, thundering in its course, o’er far-off hills. 
of time. 

It wrapped dim centuries in gloom; it broke in wast- 
ing showers ;— 

The fateful day of bursting storm and rainbow hope is 
ours ! 

Annus mirabilis! The heart of coming time shall 
thrill 

To read the rife historic page these passing moments. 
fill ;— 

To read how Spring came, laughing, up, to glad the 
land anew, 

And, lo, the southern flowers she brought were streaked 
with crimson dew !— 

And how, of all the birds that come, when winds of 
winter cease, 

Through air of balm, from lands of palm, there came: 
no dove of peace. 


268 POEMS. 


Then shot the signal light of war, a meteor, up the skies: 

What sudden frenzy filled our veins, and flashed in 
patriot eyes ! 

The giant hand that won the land from Nature dropped 
the plough, 

And, lo, the steel that broke the soil glitters to guard 
it, now! 

And they that sowed reaped other grain than waved 
on Western lea 

When o’er the prairie rose the tides of Harvest’s gol- 
den sea. 


Brave souls, that went, ’mid cheers and tears, on 
Glory’s perilous track, 

Our hearts stay with you at the wars, till ye come 
proudly back! 

Your blood has dyed with richer hue our banner’s 
glorious red ; 

Ye bring the old chivalric Past back, trooping, from 
the dead ! 

Not lost shall be the tide that flowed when pallet 
Baker fell, 

Or Winthrop’s wingéd soul went up to heaven from 
battle’s hell ! 

Nor soon forgot what years it seemed, while, flushed 
with noble ire, 

We caught the tidings of your deeds hot from the 
tremulous wire : 

How wild Zagonyi, battle-mad, with Valor’s breath of 
flame, 

Charged, like a mountain-torrent, down the slope of 
death and fame ; 


POEMS. 269: 


Or how, through all that week of doom, a hero stood 


: at bay, 

The fiend of thirst within his lines,—without, the roar- 
ing fray,— 

Till victor, though in victor’s chains, te saw his labor: 
done, | 

And History wrote thy name again, twice-sacred Lex- 
ington ! 

And is there heart but leaped, to-day, just for one hour 
to be 

Where gladly broke through battle-smoke that blaze of 
victory ? * 


Thank God! the wounded dragon writhes beneath the 
Nation’s heel ; 

The eye of Treason cannot bide the glance of Northern 
steel. 

Thank God, and you, so leal and true, whose votive 
blood has dyed, 

O softly-flowing Cumberland, thy dusk and silent. 
tide ! 

Thank God! the trampled flag is washed in this wild 
three-days’ rain ; 

It waves in victory’s jubilant wind ; it shall not droop. 
again. 


To-night, upon a myriad tents, the snow’s white silence 
lies, 

And over day’s dark tumult falls the calm of winter 
skies,— 


* This poem was delivered on the evening of the day which brought. 
the news of the capture of Fort Donelson. 


=) POEMS. 


Grim Battle’s sternly sleeping face, touched with the 
moon’s soft kiss,— 

Another century shall not look on scene so weird as 
this ! 3 

To-night, upon its burnished arms, the waiting Nation 
sleeps,— 

To-morrow, and its gathered might on faithless treason 
sweeps. 

God give us heart for that stern task the morrow has 
to do! 

Stand back, false England, frowning France, and let 
us fight it through ! 


So, by the Nation’s temple gate, 
Beside fair Freedom’s shrine we wait, 
Till, by the lightning from the cloud, 
We read the oracle of Fate. 

O Temple, neath that awful shroud 
Of tempest and Tartarean gloom, 
More proudly all thy pillars loom! 
On the dark background of that sky, 
We see how grand thou art, and high. 
Not this young hemisphere, alone, 
Whose beauteous center is thy throne, 
Has hewn the marbles, one by one, 
That, lifted to the sky, have shone 

A wonder in the setting sun! 

Dead centuries bequeathed thee state ; 
The toiling ages made thee great. 
Whenever struggling thought, divine, 
Has sprung to birth of noble words, 
A gem was wrought to light thy shrine. 


POEMS. 


Whenever hero hands and swords 

Have struck a down-trod people free, 

The valor of the sword was thine— 
The hero wrought for thee. 

The flinty strength of Scottish hills, 

For thee, by blood and toil, was bought ; 

And long-enduring hearts and wills 

- For thee, in Alpine quarries, wrought. 

And what Titanic blows, of yore, 

Woke echoes by AXgean shore, 

That in thy massive walls might be 

The granite of Thermopyle! 

Then, by what loving art and care 

The glorious fabric rose in air! 

‘ Life, fortune, sacred honor’ given, 


It towered and took the smile of heaven; 


‘Till, on each gilded spire and cope, 
Glittered a starry beam of hope, 
And, in far lands of lingering night, 
A million tearful eyes, upturned, 
Saw how its pinnacles of light 

With signals of the morning burned. 


O Temple, not this driving gale 

Shall ’gainst thy pillared front prevail ! 

Within thy sacred ark are shrined 

The future’s folded destinies ; 

The garland of our hopes entwined 
Upon thy altar lies ; 

And spirits of our sainted sires 

Are hovering guardians o’er thy spires. 

They hung thy walls with triple zone 


271 


22 POEMS, 


Of hues that, now, are Freedom’s own: 
Red—of the hero hearts that perished ; 
White—of the stainless faith they cherished ; 
Blue—of the heaven that bends to bless. 
And, while upon their graves shall press 
The weight of Freedom’s sacred sod, 
Sublime thy sacred walls shall stand— 
A Home of Hope for every land, 

A Fane of Truth and God. 


PoEM 


Read at the opening of the new Library Building of the Young Men’s 
Association of Buffalo, January 10, 1865. 


‘Tis written in the Hebrew’s sacred story, 
When foes beset the mount of Zion’s glory, 
That Judah’s city rose, with valiant hand, 

To build, at once, and shield her ancient land. 
The ring of hammer from the rising wall 

Blent with the sudden trumpet’s wakening call ; 
Peace wore the mail of warfare as she wrought ; 
Trowel and sword together built and fought ; 
Till, *mid the din of their alternate blows, 

The gleaming fabric of the temple rose! 


All honor to our city, stately ‘Queen’! 

A kindred task, methinks, her own has been ; 
For, while the storm of war around her raged, 
A gentler labor, too, her mind engaged. 

Her heart was with her country at the wars; 
Her steady hand upbore the nation’s stars ; 





POEMS. Bla 


And where was poured the loyal hero-blood, 

Her votive breast gave forth a mingling flood: 
But still, though War’s wild tumult did not cease, 
Beneath her touch uprose the walls of Peace ; 
Her art was busy while her sword was bare ; 

She built, though battle shook the troubled air ; 
All honor to her generous mind and might! 

We sit beneath the temple’s dome to-night! 


The fires are lit, the waiting portal turns ; 

At every pane the light of welcome burns, 

And, with the host’s proud pleasure in our breasts, 
We stand expectant of the nearing guests. 

Nor start if, soft, in silent stair and hall, 

A viewless foot shall seem to glide and fall, 
And, rustling past, we feel the garments move 
Of her whose birth-place was the brain of Jove; 
For, round us, here, with double luster, shine 
The household fire, the temple’s flame, divine, 
And the fair goddess of the sage’s vow 

Stands in our midst, a stately hostess, now! 

O ye, thrice-honored, more than guests, to come, 
Here at her shrine we wait to greet you HOME! 
Come, fervid Science, young and Argus-eyed, 
Take thou the place of honor at her side! 

Thee Nature beckons to her broad domain, 

And craves the sickle for her bending grain ! 
Here trim thy weird Aladdin-lamp, to shine 
And light the mirk of mystery’s haunted mine! 
Truth, still half-shackled, lifts her ery of pain,— 
Come thou and rend her last Promethean chain! 


Thou, too, grave History, clad in sober vest, 
18 


274 POEMS. 


Thrice welcome to thy temple of the West! 
Here shall thy thoughtful vision, backward cast, 
Recall the pageant of the fleeting past ; 

And on thy magic mirror, lifted here, 

Shall live the image of the pictured year! 

’T is thine to stand and vigil keep, sublime, 

By the dim death-bed of departing Time; 

To walk, anon, in battle’s track of flame! 

And trace, in lettered light, the roll of fame, 
The flags that, bright through battle-smoke, revealed 
The path of death on many a trampled field,— 
That waved o’er dark Virginia’s crimson mire, 
Or flapped in wild Antietam’s wind of fire,— 
The deathless relic of that stormy van 

That turned, and rode to fame with Sheridan,— 
The starry emblem of the true and free, 

That marched with dauntless Sherman to the sea,— 
These, won by valor to thy waiting shrine, 

(Oh, priceless offering!) History, these are thine! 
Come, then, and keep undimmed to farthest age 
The Nation’s jewels—the Future’s heritage ! 

But, once again, the yielding door is preSt :— 

A greeting to our temple’s fairest guest! 

All rarest flowers of fancy and the heart 

Kiss welcome to thy coming footsteps, Art! 

The light of summer, in far orient isles, 

Beams on thy brow and sparkles in thy smiles! 
Around thy path the birds of Eden sing, 

And blossoming beauty has eternal spring! 
Come, for the temple, else, were dark and dull,— 
O pilgrim-priestess of the Beautiful! 

Come! and, beside thee, in our heart shall rise 


POEMS. 210 


Dim memories of forgotten Paradise ; 
And, lit with hope, thy pencil’s magic dye 
Shall paint a rainbow on life’s darkest sky! 


These are the guests, and Mercy, too, divine, 

Shall sit with cloistered Learning at our shrine. 

So may they dwell, and Time’s advancing scheme 
Affirm their welfare and perfect our dream. 

With kindred aims, beneath a single dome— 

Oh, blest be each,—thrice-blest the common Home! 


As one who, o’er a desert’s sultry soil, 
A. bower’s sweet shadow raises, 

And dreams what fainting souls may bless his toil, 
What birds may chant his praises ; 


So, to the sun we lift this kindly shade, 
So, trustful, we bequeath it ;— 

Deep in the soil of faith its roots are laid, 
Our hearts’ best hopes enwreathe it. 


Not hither, yet, the summer’s minstrels rove, 
To fill the air with singing ; 

Not yet, on branches of our sacred grove, 
The golden fruit is clinging ; 


But white, o’erhead, the buds of promise teem, 
And, softly, ere we know it, 

Forth from us, here, shall float the deathless dream 
Of artist, sage, or poet! 


Here, too, shall Labor, from the dusty street, 
Come, and forget his toiling, 

As if the grass grew green beneath his feet, 
And heaven were o’er him smiling. 


276 POEMS. 


Hither shall Youth, with bounding heart, repair 
To turn the page of story, | 

Till life, transfigured, to his eye shall wear 
Romance’s robe of glory. 


And Song, to lead his fancy’s airiest train, 
Shall send her lithest fairies ;— 

To thrill his heart with love’s delicious pain, 
Her sad-eyed Highland Marys! 


And here are nooks, where, in the shadowy calms, 
Swing open magic portals, 

And, walking, we may feel within our palms 
The hands of the immortals! 


The poorest life may come, and, haply, yearn 
With hopes new-sprung to blossom, 

And, songful, to its lightened task return,— 
A flower upon its bosom! 


But not alone for dreams and calm delight 

These festal halls are dedicate to-night. 

Here shall the soul, at Learning’s sacred pyre, 
Kindle with grand resolve and high desire ; 

And, borne within, stern duty’s clarion-call 

Shall echo from each ringing arch and wall. 
Beneath this dome shall walk in solemn state 

The mighty ghosts of earth’s departed great ! 
Hero and statesman, warrior, bard and sage, 
Enshrined, shall hover o’er the pictured page, 
And, with their subtle presence, shall inspire 

An equal genius and an equal fire. 

What need to show that, strong with trust and truth, 
Hence, at the call, will spring full-statured youth? 


POEMS. 2Q2TT 


Or tell how, from these peaceful walks of life, 
Already have our heroes sought the strife ? 
Unguessed till then, we know them heroes, now, 
With valor’s light a halo on each brow. 

What need? Ah! friends, it were enough to tell 
That Chapin died and gallant Bidwell fell ; 
That, while our thought thus wanders to the brave, 
The snow is drifting o’er a nameless grave, 

And hearts that were the brother-hearts of ours 
Are mouldering upward into southern flowers. 
Or would you more of proof, I might recite 

The tale a veteran told me, yesternight. 

Of one you know, and whom [ loved, he spoke, 
And thus, in simple phrase, his passion broke : 


HOW THE YOUNG COLONEL DIED. 


You want to hear me tell you, how the young Colonel 


died ? : 

God help me, memory will not fail on that, nor tongue 
be tied. 3 

Aye, write it down and print it, in your biggest type 
of gold, 

For, sure, a braver heart than his no mortal breast 
could hold. 

*T was the second weary night of that hot and bloody 
June ; 

Through the brush, along the picket, we walked beneath 
the moon ; 


Behind us, sixty miles of death, Virginia’s thickets lay ; 
Before us was Cold Harbor,—the hell to come next day! 


278 POEMS. 


We talked about old Buffalo, and how the girls we knew, 

At the door-steps, with their sweethearts, sat in the 
silver dew ; . 

And, looking at the fields below, where the mist lay, 
like a pond, 

We seemed to see the long dark streets and the white 
lake, far beyond. 

Then, turning sudden: ‘George,’ he said, ‘I’m glad a 
moon so bright 

Will hold her face to mine, when I lie dead to-morrow. 
night !’ 


We charged, at noon, the Colonel led green Erin’s old 
brigade ; 

’T was Longstreet’s blazing cannon behind their breast- 
works played. 

We charged, till, full in front, we felt that fiery breaker 
swell— 

A sea of rattling muskets, in a storm of grape and 
shell !— 

The Colonel led, in fire and smoke his sword would 
wave and shine, 

And still the brave sound of his voice drew on the 
straggling line. 

Then, all at once, our colors sank ; I saw them reel and 


nod ; 

The Colonel jumped and took them, before they touched 
the sod ; 

Another spring, and, with a shout—the rebs will mind 
it well— 


He stood alone upon their works, waved the old flag,— 
and fell ! 


POEMS. 279 


As o’er the surf at Wicklow I’ve seen the sea-gull fly, 
His voice had sailed above the storm, and sounded clear 


and high ; 

It seemed, I swear, I had not heard the hellish rack 
and din, 

Till then, all sudden, on my ears, the thunder-crash 
rushed in. 

*T was vain to stand up longer; what could they do but 
yield ? 

Our broken remnant melted back, across the bloody 
field. 

I stayed to help the Colonel, and crept to where he 
lay. 

A smile came, tender, o’er his face, but he motioned 
me away. 

I bent to watch his parting lips and shade him from 
the light— 


‘[’m torn to pieces, George,’ he said; ‘ go, save your- 
self—good-night ! ’ 

As tender as my mother’s, that smile came up and 
shone | 

Once more upon his marble face, and the gallant soul 
was gone | 

Three times the same full moon arose and looked him 
face to face, 

Before the rebels flung a truce above the cursed place. 


We laid him near Cold Harbor, but the spot is bleak 
and bare,— 

I hate to think how I’m at home, and he still lying 
there. 


280 POEMS. 


I doubt his sleep will not be sweet, nor his loving spirit 
still, 

Till he lies among the friendly dust of yonder slanting 
hill, 

Where, from the streets he loved so well, might float 
their daily hum, 

And the lake’s low roar upon the beach, in quiet 
nights, would come. 

Ah! well, the town might plant his tomb, with marble 
words to tell 


How the bravest of her blood was poured when young 
McMahon fell ! * 


As o’er the homes of Athens towered and shone 

The sun-smit marbles of the Parthenon, 

So let these walls, with noble purpose crowned, 
Tower, till their shade shall fall on classic ground,— 
Till something of the Grecian’s vanished dream, 

A glory on their tinted spires, shall gleam. 

All beauteous shapes shall haunt their hushed retreats, 
And mingle, viewless, in the hurrying streets, 

Or glide, in happy warmth of household domes, 

The white-winged angels of a thousand homes. 

With nobler life the City’s heart shall beat ; 

A grander rhythm shall time her marching feet ; 
And History, pausing at these temple gates, 

Shall view the widening of her fair estates. 

Nor, though the sacred mountains loom afar 

That caught the light of Wisdom’s rising star, 

Shall, o’er thy fane, less lustrous heaven be bent, 

O young Minerva of the Occident ! 


* Colonel James P. McMahon, of the 164 Reg’t, N. Y. 8S. Vols. 


POEMS. 281 


Far off, against the evening’s purple breast, 

Dim, mute, a giant specter, stands The West: 
Yonder, the rays of dying sunset tinge 

His slow-receding garments’ forest-fringe ; 

He lingers still, but, lo, I see him turn 

To where these templed fires unwonted burn,— 
Over his ancient haunts of wood and fell 

Dark waves a hand of wonder and farewell :— 

His shadowy wings are spread and plumed for flight, 
The glimmering phantom fades—and all is night !— 
Night, but prophetic; on these lifted spires 

Shall burn a fairer morning’s signal-fires. 

Fresh in its light, the land shall rise, arrayed, 

And softest gales waft in the fleets of trade. 
Freedom shall watch her ancient faith increase, 
And Right, sit, smiling, in the lap of Peace. 


So stand, O Temple, by the muses blest, 
High o’er the empire of the opening West, 
A beacon and a promise, seen afar, 

Till, through the future’s portals, swung ajar, 
With spheral music shall advance, sublime, 
The happier era of millennial time! 


THE Last oF THE KAH-KWAHS. 


Read before the Buffalo Historical Society, March 13, 1863. 


For the thread of story upon which a part of these verses is strung, 
the writer is mainly indebted to O. H. Marshall, Esq., whose contri- 
butions to the Buffalo press, some fifteen or twenty years ago, over 
the signature of ‘Q,’ comprise nearly all that is known of the early 
Indian history of this locality. The Kah-Kwah, or, as it was termed 
by the French missionaries, the Neutral Nation of Indians, is shown, 


282 | POEMS. 


we think conclusively, by Mr. Marshall, to have been the tribe which 
inhabited the site of this city previous to the conquest and occupation 
of the territory by the Seneca tribe of the Iroquois confederacy. The 
Neutral Nation was so called from the fact that it was observed by 
the Jesuit travelers to be at peace with the neighboring peoples. The 
date of the destruction of this remarkable tribe is fixed at about the 
year 1647, and various legends survive as to the circumstances which 
occasioned the Iroquois invasion. The most dramatic of these was. 
transferred to paper by Wm. Ketchum, Esq., in the Commercial Ad- 
vertiser of July 12, 1845. This is related as a tradition of the Erie or 
Cat Nation; but we believe ‘Q’ has proved satisfactorily that that. 
tribe inhabited a region to the westward, and that the tragedy em- 
bodied in the legend really refers to the Kah-Kwahs. According to 
the narrative of Mr. Ketchum, the fatal quarrel with the Iroquois 
arose out of a sort of barbaric tournament, which took place at Tu- 
shu-way (‘the place of the linden or bass-wood trees’), as the Indian 
village formerly located here was called, and in which the young 
men of the Iroquois and of the resident tribe participated. A relent- 
less war followed this scene of savage revelry, which ended, only, in 
the almost total annihilation of the Neutral Nation. It is said that the 
last battle was fought near the old Indian mission-house, a few miles 
from here. 


Muse of the storied scroll, whose thoughtful eye 
Watched the long pageant of the years gone by; 
Whose patient art has touched and kept sublime 
All that is deathless of departed time ;— 
Historic muse, whose pilgrim feet have stood 
Where many a nation’s star has set in blood, 

Or followed where the sacred dawn of Right 
Crept over Europe’s late and lingering night, 
Shedding on Roman hills its passing smile, 

And brightening on the ‘ silver-coasted isle ’ ;— 
Forth from thy home, amid the graves of kings 
And brooding gloom of half-forgotten things, 
Come where thy broader path, O History, waits, 
And walk with empire through her western gates ! 


POEMS. 283: 


Come where a fairer day to earth is born 

(The Old World’s evening is the New World’s morn), 
And, in the luster of that larger sun, 

Look forth and see thy grandest task begun! 

No pomp or kingly glory here has birth, 

Nor crumbling temple sinks to classic earth ; 

But, young and fair, beneath these western skies, 
The emblems of a hundred empires rise. 

And here are fields, amid whose thunderous strife 
The Future’s hope, embattled, strikes for life. 
Even now the wind is warm with wav’s red rain, 
And Truth and Treason cross the sword again. 
Hither, O History, come, and, breathless, wait 
While Freedom trembles in the scale of Fate! 
Here bring the mirror of thy magic page, 

And catch the features of this grander age! 
Come, for the path that seeks the West is thine, 
And, lo, we build thee, here, this way-side shrine! 


And, sooth, its site, that wooes the pilgrim’s stay,. 
Might lure the muse, herself, to brief delay : 
Yonder, the lake, with heaven upon its breast, 
Sleeps at the open portals of the West ; 

And the strong river, like a god in wrath, 

Leaps from the calm upon his fateful path. 

From yon gray ruin’s shade the forms are fled 
That came, but now, up-thronging from the dead ; 
But the great heart of Commerce, full and strong,. 
Throbs to the music of swart Labor’s song. 

Here, in the coming years, the muse shall rest, 
And here, to-night, we hail her as our guest; 
And, sleeping by the sounding river’s stream, 


284 : POEMS. 


Her slumber with its visioned past shall gleam ;— 
Hark, while I strive to read from History’s dream :— 


The city sleeps: its changing features fade 

In the green depths of many a rustling glade ; 
‘The wind of summer whispers, sweet and low, 
’Mong trees that waved three hundred years ago ; 
The streamlet seeks the path it knew of yore, 
And Erie murmurs to a lonely shore ; 

The birds are busy in their leafy towers ; 

‘The trampled earth is wild again with flowers ; 
And the same river rolls, in changeless state, 
Eternal, solemn, deep and strong as fate. 


It is the time when, still, the forest made 

For its dusk children a protecting shade, 

And by these else untrodden shores they stood, 
Embodied spirits of the solitude ;— 

‘ When, still, at dawn, or day’s serener close, 

The smoke-wreaths of the Kah-Kwah lodges rose. 


No hoary legend of their past declares 

Through what uncounted years our home was theirs,— 
How oft they hailed, new-glittering in the west, 
‘The moon, a phantom-white canoe, at rest 

In deeps of purple twilight. This, alone, 

Of all their vanished story, has not flown: 

That, through unnumbered summer’s long increase, 
‘The Neutral Nation was the home of peace. 

Far to the north the Huron war-whoop rang, 

And, eastward, on the stealthy war-path, sprang 
‘The wary Iroquois; but, like the isle 


POEMS. 285 


That, locked in wild Niagara’s fierce embrace, 
Still wears the smile of summer on its face 

( Love in the clasp of Madness), so, the while, 
With peace the Kah-Kwah villages were filled. 
And, as the lake’s dark heart of storm is stilled— 
The fury of its surge constrained to caln— 
Beneath the touch of winter’s marble palm, 

So, when the braves of warring nations met, 
They changed the hatchet for the calumet, 

And hid, with stolid face, their mounting ire 
From the bright glimmer of the Kah-Kwah fire. 


Year followed year, and peaceful Time had cast 

A misty autumn-sunshine o’er the past, 

And, to the hearts that calmly summered there, 

The forehead of the future shone as fair; 

Save that, perchance, some wise and wakeful ear 

In the great river’s ceaseless song could hear, 
Through the mirk midnight, when the wind was still, 
The murmured presage of approaching ill. 


It came, at last—the nation’s evil day, 
Whose rayless night should never pass away, 
A calm foreran the tempest, and, a space, 
Fate wore the mask of joy upon his face. 

It was a day of revel, feast, and game, 
When, from the far-off Iroquois, there came 
A hundred plumed and painted warriors, sent 
To meet the Kah-Kwah youth in tournament. 
And legend tells how sped the mimic fight ; 
And how the festal fire blazed high at night, 
And laugh and shout through all the greenwood rang ; 
Till, at the last, a deadly quarrel sprang, 


286 POEMS. 


Whose shadow, as the frowning guests withdrew, 
Deepened, and to a boding war-cloud grew. 


And not for long the sudden storm was stayed ; 

It burst in battle, and in many a glade 

‘Were leaves of green with fearful crimson crossed, 

As if by finger of untimely frost. 

Fighting, they held the stubborn pathway back, 

The foe relentless on their homeward track, 

Till the thinned remnant of the Kah-Kwah braves 

‘Chose, where their homes had been, to make their 
oTaves ; 

And rallied for the last and hopeless fight, 

With the blue ripples of the lake in sight. 


Could wand of magic bring that scene, again, 
Back, with its terrors, to the battle-plain, 

Into these silent streets the wind would bear 
Its mingled ery of triumph and despair ; 

And all the nameless horror of the strife, 
That only ended with a nation’s life, 

Would pass before our startled eyes, and seem 
The feverish fancy of an evil dream. 

For, in the tumult of that fearful rout, 

The watch-light of the Kah-Kwah camp went out; 
And, thenceforth, in the pleasant linden shade, 
Seneca children, only, laughed and played. 
And still the river rolled, in changeless state, 
Eternal, solemn, deep and strong as fate. 


A few strange words of a forgotten tongue, 
That still by lake and river’s marge have clung, 


‘POEMS. 287 


Are all that linger, of the past, to tell, 

With their weird-sounding music, how it fell 

That here the people of that elder day 

Sinned, suffered, loved, hoped, hated, passed away. 


So, History’s dream is told; and, fading, fleet 

The shadows of the forest from the street. 

But is it much to ask, if it were sought, 

_ That it return, at times, to tinge our thought ?— 

To tell us, when the winter-fires are lit, 

And in the happy heart of home we sit, 

That other fires were here, ere ours had shone, 

And sank to ashes, years and years agone ?— 

That where we stand, and, watching, see the West 
Ebb, till the stars lie stranded on its breast, 

Or homeward ships, more blest than they of Greece, 
Returning with the prairie’s Golden Fleece, 

To other eyes, long since, perchance was given, 
Through the same sapphire arch, a glimpse of heaven? 
And, haply, not in vain the thought shall rise, 

To sadden, it may be, our reveries, 

That here have throbbed, with all the bliss of ours, 
Hearts that have mouldered upward into flowers! 





THe MInistry oF ART. 


Read at the opening of the Buffalo Fine Arts Academy, 
February 15, 1864. 


The winter night is dark; the wild wind falls 
Asleep in snow, and, sleeping, moans the while ; 
But Art is mistress here, and, lo, her halls 
Ave lit with summer’s smile! 


288 POEMS. 


And darker night has draped the land in gloom, 
And wilder wind, that will not sleep nor cease, 
Beats over broken homes; but here, in bloom, 
Droop only wreaths of peace. 


No shadows enter here; and, Art, divine, 
We greet thee, though the iron hand of war 
Knocks at our gates; to-night is ours and thine, 
Bright pilgrim from afar ! 


The bark was blest that bore thee o’er the sea, 
From sunny Italy, from golden Spain,— 
From many a temple builded brave to thee 
By Arno, Thames, or Seine. 


The time had come, and thou didst take thy way 
Through portals that the sunset left ajar, 
And all thy new-found empire, waiting, lay 
Beneath the Western Star. 


So, here, thy broadest canvas be unfurled,— 
Thy fairest dreams, O magic Art, be born,— 
To limn the features of the younger world, 
Ruddy with hope and morn! 


We greet thee, here, we crave thy kindly powers; 
For, as the olden forest’s green retreats 
Have sunk, with all their freshness and their flowers, 
Beneath the city’s streets,— 


So is the freshness of our life down-trod ; 
So its sweet nooks a dusty highway made ; 
And, reckless, over Memory’s greenest sod, 
Hurry the feet of Trade. 


POEMS. 289 


Gone is the hush wherein our spirits gave 

Memnonian music to the stars and sun ; 

Over our thought’s serenest, clearest wave 
The wheels of traffic run. 


’T is thine, O Priestess of the Beautiful, 
To bring again the joys our hearts have lost, 
And even the windows of life’s winter paint 
With pictures of the frost! 


Thy spells are potent; these are magic halls ; 
Enchantress, thou, whose pencil is thy wand! 
Radiant, and far from all these pictured walls, 
Opens a faery land. 


_ As through the gate of some enchanted palace, 
We wander forth, beneath divinest skies ; 


And there are windless woods and silent valleys, 
Where summer never dies. 


Away, away, where soundless streams are falling, 
Where Fancy’s sweet will, only, points the track, 
Until, at last, her vagrant steps recalling, 
The soul comes singing back! 


Or, haply, to some Alpine summit scaling, 
We see the vale beneath us, blue and blest, 
As he who spies, o’er heights of pain prevailing, 
His Italy of rest. 


~ 


Or, in a barque of dreams the soul is drifted 
Athwart a sea where summer sleeps and smiles; 
Above whose verge the purple mists are lifted 
That fringe the Golden Isles. 
19 


290 POEMS. 


There may we meet our vanished Youth’s romances ; 
There pluck the lotos, in its fruit or bloom, 
By Lethean streams, where never face but Fancy’s 
Has bent above their gloom. 


Or, haply yet, we walk with hushed October, 
Where the year fades, and, queenly, as she lies, 
Stills the mute winds that tarry to disrobe her, 
And smiles before she dies. 


Anon, it is a scene in human story, 
Where Freedom’s sons uphold her ancient faith ; 
Or some immortal face is lit with glory, 
Even as it looks on death; 


Or the calm eyes of some fair saint are looking 
Down, through the gloom of centuries, into ours, 
With the white patience of her brow rebuking 
Our puny griefs and powers. 


These are thy spells; and thus, O subtle Art, 
Thy magie colors, like the mystic seven, 
Melt into one pure ray, that points the heart 

To beauty,—thence to heaven ! 


So, still, to men reveal the Beautiful,— 
The Beautiful, sole angel whom our eyes 
Have held the gift to see, since, dimmed and dull, 
They turned from Paradise. 


- 


For, when the gates of Eden closed in wrath, 
She, only, of the angel host, had leave 
To pity man, and on his barren path 
Glide forth, a fairer Eve! 


POEMS. 291 


So, ever, in the loveliest spots of earth, 
He caught the glitter of her silver wing ; 
And when his sweetest music chanced to birth, 
Her finger touched the string. 


And, still, with glimpses of her heavenly face, 
With dreams, whereof the waking is sweet tears, 
~ With thoughts that never on the lips have place, 
Nor come, save once, in years,— 


With these—with all that makes us thrill or burn,— 
Still does she haunt the heart and light the eyes, 
Till, with a longing, wild desire, we yearn 
For the lost Paradise. 


So, still, O Art, we follow where thy wand 
Points to the path the Beautiful hath trod ; 
For Art joins hands with Beauty,—Beauty’s hand 
Touches the throne of God! 


HvusHED I8 THE LoncG Rowu’s AnGcrRy THREAT. 


Read at the opening of the Central Fair, held for the benefit of the 
United States Sanitary Commission, February 22, 1864. 


Hushed is the long-roll’s angry threat, 
The squadron’s echoing tramp ; 

And Night, her starry pickets set, 
Is guardian of the camp. 

The soldier sleeps ; and sleep has spread 
Her tent of dreams above him,— 

One white wall slanting o’er his head, 
And one o’er those that love him! 


292 


POEMS. 


He sleeps; a thousand wintry miles 
Keep parted, with their gloom, 

His bed in battle’s slumbering files,— 
This bower of light and bloom. 

Oh, would these fairy halls for him 
Might ope, to-night, Elysian ; 

Or, wafted southward, far and dim, 
Flash o’er him in a vision! 


Hush! for methinks the winter wind 
Has swept the camp-fire’s place, 
And yet, a radiance soft and kind 
Steals o’er the veteran’s face. 
Oh, surely, gleaming from afar, 
It lights those stains of powder ; 
And, surely, in his dream of war 
These flowers are shedding odor ! 


He sleeps; but o’er him, in the skies, 
The milder stars have met; 

The heaven of home is o’er his eyes, 
The ruddy Mars has set ; 

And from his bearded lips, the while, 
A smile has passed, elated. 

O Woman, by that soldier’s smile 
Your work is consecrated ! 


Ay! sacred are the magic charms 
That set the night a-glow, 

Till Summer into Winter’s arms 
Sprang, laughing, from the snow! 


POEMS. 


The blended skill of hand and heart 
Wrought in these halls of faery— 

With Martha’s careful, tireless art, 
The love and faith of Mary! 


Not mirth nor thoughtless revel glides, 
With Flora, in these bowers ; 

°T is Mercy’s tearful face that hides 
Behind this mask of flowers. 

*T is Woman’s constant, fadeless faith 
This evergreen discloses,— 

Her heart of love, outlasting death, 
That throbs beneath these roses. 


O Soldier, fearless be your mien, 
While the grim work endures ! 


For her white hand is stretched, unseen, 


And grasps the Flag with yours. 
And God fail us if we fail you, 
Our debt of love forgetting, 
Or cease to keep your glory new 
In memory’s golden setting ! 


O Woman, angels aid your toil! 
So weary not, nor cease. 

Where battle sternly breaks the soil, 
You plant the seeds of peace. 

And, lo, beyond the war-cloud’s frown, 
Comes clearer sky, and starrier ; 

And History holds an equal crown 
For you and for the Warrior! 


298 


294 POEMS. 


Tue Trento Muse. 
Read before the New York State Press Association, June, 1874. 
i 


How shall the poet sing, or bard be heard, 
To-day, beside the Babel-stream of time ? 
Tides of the world’s wide tumult drown his rhyme ; 
The clanging air is stirred 
With wings of rumor; in his ear 
The lightning’s myriad clicking voices pour 
The ceaseless babble of the articulate sphere ; 
While, ’round him, o’er and o’er, 
With wash of wave, from farthest clime to clime, 
The human ocean, audible, beats its shore. 


II. 


For, evermore, our earth is clamorous grown, 
And full of tongues. Her ancient silences " 
Are broken in their places and o’erthrown. 
The Past sleeps, mute amid its mysteries ; 
But, on its awful sepulcher of stone, 
The iron hammer of the Present rings. 
Gone is the stillness that, with brooding wings, 


POEMS. 295 


Folded the midnight of the early world. 
Flown, too,—forever flown— 
The hush of history’s charméd dawn, 
With the first flag of morning just unfurled, 
When, clear and strong, 
Some single bird of song, 
High in the heaven of his own thought withdrawn, 
Poured all his soul in melody, 
And woke the tongueless earth to vocal ecstacy ! 


Ill. 


It is a tropic blossoming-time of Speech,— 
A summer, when the bloom of words is rife 
On every growth of life; 
And, to its farthest branches’ reach, 
Foliage of print is wov’n and wrought 
About the tree of thought. 
The rapid foot of action presses 
Through tangled literary wildernesses. 
So thick, in sooth, the lush papyrus grows, 
Our later Nilus hardly flows. 
No subtle chance nor darkling hint 
But leaps to leaf and flower of print. 


The very secret soul of things, 
That, erst, in brooding dusk, lay hid 
Within its waiting chrysalid, 
Now hatches instant paper wings 
And flutters forth to consciousness, 
The blithe and swift ephemeron of the Press ! 


296 POEMS. 


Iv. 
Well may the bard forego his song,— 
The seer from mountain-top descend ! 
The Man of News—to him the times belong, 
And to his mastery bend! 
The modern epic, to its unguessed end, 
Grows under his prosaic pen. 
What shall escape his sweeping ken? 
The hamlet’s gossip, the great town’s uproar, 
And all the loud report of men, 
The light tick of his dropping type re-sounds, again! 
His to explore 
And flash the torch in darkest nooks of earth. 
Through the great groaning lazar-house of life, 
Or dens of sweltering death, he goes, 
And their black secret shows. 
The ceaseless, arméd tramp of human woes, 
Fantastic masques of crime, the strife 
Of vulture passion, honor’s dearth 
And virtue’s sad decay, 
Council of friends and plot of foes, 
With all that courts or shuns the day,— 
These must his merciless lens expose, 
His portrait of the time display. 
His, open-spread and bare, 
Full in the public light and air, 
The good and ill alike to lay ; 
That, haply, in the day’s broad eye, 
The social rose may flourish fair, 
The deadly nightshade die. 
A wizard, he; his sheet a magic glass 
Wherein the mirrored world doth shine, 


POEMS. 297 


And all its diverse energies 
In hurrying throngs approach and pass, 
Appear and disappear, 
Weaving a web of texture fine 
From verge to verge of farthest alien skies ; 
Till far and foreign are brought near, 
And myriad threads of destiny intertwine. 
And ever to the ear, 
From the same wizard concave, rise, 
In gusts up-blown from every shore and clime, 
The multitudinous voices, blent, yet clear, 
Of the vast surging earth, the din 
‘Of traffic, the low sough of sighs, 
The laughter and the cries 
Of many peoples, and the roar of time. 
And, lo, Humanity, dismembered, marred 
Of visage, comes, looks wondering’ in, 
And sees, despite the stain of sin, 
And features battle-scarred, 
And eruel woes endured beneath the sun, 
Her face still bears the mould of the divine,— 
Her mighty many-nationed heart is ONE! 


v. 
The plastic time takes ever-changing forms. 
The age is past when one compelling mind 
Could sway the armies of mankind, 
And lead their dumb, obedient swarms 
To conquest of ideal lands. 
The mighty captains of the race 
Sleep in their storied tombs, nor rule again— 
Heroes of sword, or word, or pen— 
With power to loose and bind. 


298 POEMS. 


But, in a broader, freer space 
The circle of the world expands ; 
And, breaking immemorial bands, 
The conscious peoples rush apace 
To blend in one vast commonweal of men! 
In the new order thus to be, 
No priestly power, supreme to blight or bless, 
No despot leader, she— 
The Tenth, our modern, Muse—the Press ! 
Hers, not, in her own thinking, to be great, 
But rather to keep free 
The channels of the people’s thought, 
And be the voice and conscience of the State ; 
Setting a gauge whereby the State may see 
How, in their seething caverns, palpitate 
The pent volcanic forces of its fate. 
But not the less her service shall be fraught 
With active use and blessing, and confer 
A sacred office on her minister. 
His, where the springs of public virtue run, 
To watch, and keep their current pure and strong; 
With hand alert, to scourge the wrong 
And give the good deed to the sun; 
The saving word, the larger creed, 
To speak, and, in the speaking, speed ; 
To preach, with pen of fire, 
Men’s ‘politics’ and God’s justice shall be one; 
And so this fallen word redeem, 
To heights of its old meaning, from the mire. 
Not his the prophet’s dream, 
Or spell of power, the nations to inspire ; 
But, watcher of the seasons, to proclaim 


POEMS. 299 


What signs, portentous of the future, flame, 
And, in the orient of the world’s desire, 
What new-born stars arise. 
Or, like some workman, he, who plies 
The chisel with swift patient hands, 
And shapes the plan a greater hath designed. 
The rugged marble fronts him, and, behind. 
The invisible Master stands, 
To whom alone 
The secret of the block is known. 
The time is long, the watcher’s eyes wax blind,, 
_And weary is the worker, toiling, dumb ; 
But, at the last, before him there is grown 
A figure of the fairer Age to come! 
The image of the Master’s mind, 
Girt with Beauty’s perfect zone, 
Looms, living, from the stone ! 


Mary LeEnox. 
A NEW YEAR’S ITEM IN VERSE. 


Soften to airs of balm, O winter wind! 

Melt soft to summer dew, O snow! and let 

A vision of sweet June be in our eyes; 

For, like some vernal brook, my story springs. 
All among happy things, and takes its course 
"Mid flowers and sunshine and the birth of love. 


You know the place I write of, and, perhaps, 
Three hours out from the city, when the train 
Has torn in thunder past, you may have marked 
The very farm, far on an edge of woods, 


300 POEMS. 


And facing an Arcadia of calm fields, © 

Where Mary Lenox lived. Her father’s house 
‘Was motherless, and so she grew to wield, 

In love, and in an eldest daughter’s right, 

The scepter of the little realm, and blend 

The matron and the maiden. Grace of each 
Was in her mien, and steadfast in her eyes 
Shone forethought, and a care for others’ weal, 
And duty, like a star. Lowly her life, 

Bowed with its useful fruit, as autumn bent 
Her father’s orchard trees; nor less, like these, 
It had its due of blossoms, and a crown 

Of beauty. 


So she lived, and might have lived ; 
But rumor of her graces, widely sown, 
‘Came up a crop of wooers. First, they say, 
It was a farmer-lad who touched her heart ; 
But Edward Maxwell, lawyer, city-bred, 
Stormed at the half-made breach, and took the prize, 
And one sweet day of summer they were wed. 
Then, from the old stone door-step, forth they went, 
And down the garden-walk, while all the flowers, 
‘That knew her feet, turned wistful on their stems 
And breathed farewells of odor. And away 
On the high road they drove, bridegroom and bride, 
And many eyes looked after them through tears,— 
Until the great world’s gates of distance oped 
And took them in. 


The city was their home; 
To Mary an enchanted land, where Love 
Was chief magician, weaving in her life 


POEMS. 301 


Such radiant colors as she had not dreamed. 
She seemed to breathe a charméd air of light 
And music. On her pure and plastic mind 
Culture began to set its noble seal, 

And mould her beauty into shining form. 
And she was happy in her husband’s love,— 
Happy in each day’s birth of joyous power 
And aspiration,—happy in her home, 

Where many a pleasant guest of the heart made stay, 
And on whose windows ever seemed to glow 
The orient of a future calm and fair. 


But trouble came. Whether by slow approach, 
Or suddenly and fierce, to Mary’s heart 

It came, I cannot tell. The adverse fates 

Give warning, sometimes, and the straggling gun 
Tells of the far attack, that, gathering on, 

Rolls near and louder o’er the distant hills ; 
Anon, on Sabbath mornings of the soul, 

The battle bursts in fire. It may have been 
That, often, while she sat in light and warmth, 
She heard her sorrow, like the outcast wind, 
Utter its boding cry, or guessed its face 

At the dark pane—God only knows the whole : 
But this is certain, that there came a night 

(Her babe lay smiling in its sleep the while) 
When she had waked from her long dream of bliss, 
And, face to face, stood with her mortal woe. 

In that dread hour she read her husband’s heart 
As if by light of hell;—saw the pure love 

That filled it once corroded by disease ;— 

Saw that already he lay bound—heart, mind, 


~ 


302 POEMS. 


Soul, honor, all—as on a funeral pyre, 


Lit by a drunkard’s passion, and must burn,— 
Unless God’s love and hers might quench the fire,— 
Burn evermore, down, down to death and doom! 


She quailed awhile before her evil fate, 
Then, brave and calm, confronted it, and scanned 
Its cruel features till she knew them, each. 


Then, on her knees, she asked for strength of love 


And woman’s faith to last in her till death. 
Lightly had love upborne her life, thereto, 
And, now, love’s burden lay on her. The road 
‘Was weary, but she would be true to love. 
For love’s sake she would walk it to the end. 
And so she rose and took her cross. 


From this, 
It was not long before the social ground 
Began to give to Edward’s heavy tread. 
The grades are steep on that familiar path 
By which he sank. Yet, sometimes, he would seem 
To fix a foot in some precarious ledge, 
And nerve himself once more to climb, her hand 
Clutching at his with desperate strength, the twain 
For dear life straining up the dread ascent, 
Then clinging, pone a moment, till the gulf 
Drew them again to deeper deeps. And yet, 
Not wholly died his love ; for there were days 


That seemed to bring his gentle manhood back; 


And Mary half forgot her wasted life, 
Forgiving all, and trimmed the lamp of love 
Anew, to light her through the dark, to come, 


Of heart-break, and neglect, and brutal wrong. 


POEMS. 303 


At poverty’s grim gates they stood at last, 

And took the host’s chill welcome, and passed in. 
And bravely Mary toiled, with hand and brain, 
Throwing her young life, piecemeal, to the wolf 
That waited, hungry, for her babe and her; 

Nor made complaint, but ever nursed a spark 
Of woman’s faith in him who madly tried 

To tread it in the mire. 


It chanced, I think, 
Before her trouble, that her father sold 
The pleasant farm, and moved with all his house 
Far to the west, whence news infrequent came, | 
Not cheerful, of hard struggle and hard luck. 
So Mary hid her sorrow from her kin, 
Sending brave words, though blotted oft with tears ; 
Striving to think that all was for the best ; 
That, haply, had her father’s door stood near 
And open still, pleading for her return, 
Weak, and too sorely tried, she might have fled 
Her duty, and thrown down her grievous cross. 
Poor Mary! trial such as this, I ween, 
Might e’en have overborne her, and her guilt 
Had not been quite beyond the range of grace. 
But there were other trials stored for her, 
More grim of shape. One night of woe she sat, 
Holding her babe upon her knee, and watched 
Her light of life die out on its white face ; 
And held it, motionless, till morning came,— 
Morning, that only seemed another night, 
And she the sole sad thing that could not die, 
In a great world of death and weltering dark. 


304 POEMS. 


Henceforth she was alone, but still held on 

In her rough road, and did what woman could. 
Within their poor abode she plied the arts 
That even give a gentler face to Want. 

The squalor of its walls her cunning veiled, 
As if with viewless arras, woven of love, 

And rarer than the weft of Gobelin, hung 

In rooms of kings, and rich with pictured lives: 
Of saint and martyr. For, although her love 
Promised no harvest of an earthly hope, 
Methinks it was a secret faith of hers 

That, one day, he, recalling all, would note 
The prints of blood her duteous feet had left, 
And would retrace them, back to better life. 


Her bright face faded, but her soul was strong. 
Sometimes she listened, as if in a dream, 

To those who blamed her that she flung her life: 
Into a bottomless slough, and showed her doors, 
Open, wherethrough she yet might pass and find’ 
Freedom, and bread, and honorable place. 

Then, if she answered, it was still in dream ; 
For, on the old stone step, she sat again 

With Edward, and looked forth on evening fields,, 
And heard with him the low of kine, and bells 
That tinkled on the hill-side; and she said, 
Musing, ‘I shall not leave him till I die!’ 


It fell, at last, that Mary’s toil should end. 

A dull, cold winter-night possessed the earth ; 
Wind shuddered in the streets. Weary and faint, 
She had lain down, and fallen in feverish sleep, 


POEMS. 305 


But woke, betimes (or thought she woke), and looked, 
Wondering that, in her fireless room, she felt 

No cold, nor pain, nor deadly languor more. 

Glad, therefore, she rose up, and, lo, the place 
Was filled with summer warmth and light of day, 
And at her feet bloomed flowers! Then she saw 
It was that garden-ground of long ago! 

All things were as of old, and naught seemed strange ; 
Not even strange that, coming to a bower, 

She found her babe, and hid it in her breast. 
There, evermore, she had been fain to rest, 

But that a hungering impulse led her forth 

To seek for something precious she had lost,— 
Something, she knew not what, that in her soul 
Begat vague yearning and a sense of loss. 

By many a path familiar, many a spot 

Sacred in lore of her lost youth, she sought,— 
But always vainly, till, with anguish pressed, 

And woe of that vain quest upon her soul, 

She sat her down beside the door, and cried 

That she might die. Sudden, her cry was hushed ; 
For, in an instant, all that garden place 

Blossomed to awful radiance, and was stirred 

As with a throng, shining, innumerable, 

That moved about her, or did seem to move, 

And be the border of a mighty host 

Whose legions flooded the near fields, the while 
The far surge of its camps crested the hills. 

She sank with fear; but One came near, and stooped, 
And raised her with a hand of human love, 

And took her tender babe, that smiled content. 


So, she stood still and worshiped, full of peace. 
20 


306 POEMS. 


Then He (she knew Him, though none told His name), 
He who had raised her, turned and cried aloud: 
‘Restore to her what she hath lost; restore 

An hundred-fold of all her wasted love. 

Lo, I am Love, and she hath borne my cross! 

Her broken heart hath spilled its wealth for me! ’ 


Then they who heard caught up the words, and sent 
Their sound far outward, in a wave of song, 

That swelled and broadened to a choral sea. 

And, ‘ Give her back whate’er she lost!’ they sang ; 
‘Give back an hundred-fold!’ the anthem pealed ; 
‘An hundred-fold!’ until the heaven was rent, 

And took the song from earth, its myriad waves 
Gathered and drawn to one melodious tide, 

That ebbed, far upward, through the heavenly gates, 
And filled the courts unseen. But earth was still. 


The noon of night had struck, the clangor ceased 
Of bells that told the New Year born; but she 
Had passed where years are never born, nor die. 
Tt was that song of Time whose chorus broke 
Upon her vision of eternity ; 
But none the less the beauteous dream came true, 
And what she saw but mirrored that which was. 
For, surely, angels came to her, and feet 
Moved round her, in the hush of that low room, 
Of them that waited with the martyr’s crown 
To place upon her brow. Oh, chiefest prize! 
The martyr’s crown—whose radiant gold is set 
With garnered diamonds of the martyr’s tears, 
And, in the midst (redeemed from mire of earth 


POEMS. 307 


And men’s despite), star-like, the jewel Love ! 
Not many they who choose the proffered cross, 
Or, choosing, can endure to such a crown. 
But, in the rank of those nearest the throne, 
By fagot come, or scaffold, it must be 

The silent martyrs of the household sit, 

And wear an equal glory,—in whose light 

The diadems of angels are made dim. 


THANKSGIVING IN War TIME. 


But the Nation’s sky is darkened; can we keep the 
holy day, 

While the pillared State is shaken with the storm’s 
uprising fray ? 

Not the less, O people, gather to your fireside altars 
in,— 

Ring the louder, turret wardens, o’er the thunder’s 
nearing din! 

And, as once upon the waters of the wind-tossed 
Galilee, 

To a crew whose prayer was mingled with the clamor 
of the sea, 

Came the form of One whose presence drove the shud- 

dering tempest back,— 

So, perchance, amid the tumult, in the storm’s destroy- 
ing track, 

While the rage of human hatred rises wilder than 
the seas, 

In this holy time of worship, to the nation on its 
knees, 


308 POEMS. 


Shall the Power divine, that trod the heaving surges, 
come again, 

Walking grandly o’er the passions and the angry 
hearts of men ; 

And the sea shall own his presence—all its billows 
sink and cease, 

And the Ship of State lie cradled in the happy Port 
of Peace! 


THANKSGIVING Day. 


Still thy winds, O wild November, let their angry 
music¢ sleep ! 

Give us Sabbath o’er the city; hush thy tempest on the 
deep ! 

With the golden sheaf of Autumn lifted in its stalwart 
hands, 

At the threshold of the Winter, lo, a grateful nation 
stands ! 

Up the year’s long path of blessing, heedless, thankless, 
we have trod; 

But, to-day, the people’s altar sends its incense up to 
God. 

Ring aloud, in spire and turret—in your windy prison 
cells— 

Ring the morning in with anthems of Thanksgiving, 
O ye bells! 

Gather, O ye people, gather, where the ruddy hearths 
are bright, 

And the shades of care and sorrow vanish, backward, 
from the light ! 


POEMS. 309 


Link anew the charméd circle of the household’s broken 
chain, 

Let the land be full of worship, and the heart, of love, 
again ; | 

Homeward to the festal service call the wandering 
child that roams ; 

For, to-day, the nation’s altars are its firesides and its 
homes. 

Moon by moon the year has circled, and before us is 
unrolled 

All the seasons’ perfect drama, as in countless years of 
old: 

In the valley sank the snow-drift, and the snow-drop 
sprang anew, | 

And, anon, Earth woke in flowers from a summer-dream 
of dew. 

Winter, Spring and Summer failed not, and she drank 
the light and rain, 

Till the sun-lit heaven lay mirrored in her waving fields 
of grain. 

O’er the wave, the white-winged vessels came, as went 
the ships of Greece— | 

Happy Argonauts, returning with the prairies’ golden 
fleece. ; 

O’er the land, the song of Labor, in the workshop and 
the field, 

Forth, from ocean unto ocean, in a choral wave has 
pealed. 

Therefore, wake, in all your turrets—in your windy 
prison-cells— 

Ring the morning in with anthems of Thanksgiving, 


O ye bells! 


310 POEMS. 


REstT. 


Once more, blessed valley, I seek and have found thee; 
Tired, hunted, I ran, with the mad world hallooing ; 
I slipped to thy shade—I am safe from pursuing— 

No care climbeth over the green walls that bound thee. 

In the hush of thy woodlands that draw me and woo me, 

By the rush of thy waters whose thunders thrill thro’ me, 
In deep hemlock cover, in vine-trellised arbor, 

My heart finds once more a blest haven and harbor. 
But the summers are many, the years have flown fleetly, 
Since first we came hither, with revel and laughter. 

Ah! how easy the jest, then, the mirth following after, 
The poem to praise thee, the song that ran sweetly. 
It was joy, then, that met us, by greenwood and meadow ; 
It is rest, now, rest only, we crave in thy shadow. 


GLEN Iris, 1887. 


LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


RosBertT Burns anp His POETRY. 


From an address delivered on the One Hundred and Sixth Anniver- 
sary of the Poet’s birth—January 25, 1865. 


. . . The poet was as fully identified with his class 
as the man. His singing robes were no holiday gar- 
ments, but an every-day suit, familiar with the wind 
and weather, with the rain and the sun of heaven. . He 
sought no high-sounding titles or pompous themes for 
his verse. A very coarse and unsuggestive condition 
of things surrounded him; he lived in a world of com- 
monplace; but he made no frantic effort to get out of 
it when he wrote. He stayed in it, and sang of it, and 
men wondered to see springs of music gush where there 
had been only barren desert, before. The ground he 
stood upon was good enough and high enough for him ; 
he wanted no artificial Parnassus from which to descry 
objects worthy of his muse. His was the true touch of 
Midas, transmuting whatever-came to his hand to poetic 
gold. When his dramatic mind ranged outward, seek- 
ing exercise of its strength, it was content to endow the 
‘Twa Brigs’ of Ayr with intelligence, or to draw from 
the mouths of the faithful dogs that trotted at his 
heels wisdom, pathos and exquisite humor. The daisy, 
‘wee, modest, crimson-tippéd flower,’ to which his plow 


312 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


gave burial, was not too insignificant a subject for his 
pen. It fell, indeed, into its shallow sepulcher; but 


Burns was there, to sing it up, again, into deathless — 


bloom. Its fragrance is eternal, and the tear that 
Burns shed upon its fringed eye-lid sparkles, still, in 
our sight, ‘an immortal drop of dew.’ <A poet less 
great than Burns would scarcely dare, like him, to 
choose a pet sheep and an ‘Auld mare, Maggie,’ as 
subjects for plaintive elegy and manly apostrophe. 
The lesser bard, too, would start, aghast, were his 
poetic vision directed to the spectacle of a certain 
familiar but detested insect climbing to ‘the vera 
topmost towering height’ of a lady’s bonnet in church. 
But it was in his address to a creature no more poetic 
than a louse, that Burns gave voice to his unsurpass- 
able exclamation : 


O wad some Power the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae mony a blunder free us 
And foolish notion : 

What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us 
And even Devotion ! 


The trunk of the elephant is so fashioned that it 
may rend great boughs from the forest trees, or, with 
a subtle movement, pick from the ground the smallest 
needle. So is it with the mind of the great poet. 

With equal faithfulness and straightforward, single- 
hearted simplicity, Burns treated the human material 
that came to his hand. He sang what was in his own 
heart—the good and the bad of it—with such truth- 
fulness that his song goes straight to all other hearts. 
His is a heart-language, which does not need to be 


pe ba 


tent ee ee ie A ole 


ROBERT BURNS AND HIS POETRY. 313 


interpreted to be understood. His very frankness gave 
him enemies; for Burns made an open breast of his 
sins and failings,—while some wore Pharisaical waist- 
coats over theirs. The confessions of the poet to these 
_ people sounded like accusation of themselves. They 
pronounced over him bans of bitter excommunication ; 
he retorted in wicked and savage satire. 

And here, in parenthesis, let me say all that I deem 
it necessary for me to say of the dark side of Burns’ 
_character. Almost before the world was told that he 
had genius, it was published that he had vices. It is 
true. But his sins lay on the surface of his nature. 
They were born, not from that great, deep, true heart 
of his, but out of the storm and fury of the passions 
that swept over it. Great, too, may have been his 
fault, but greater still was his repentance. Let him 
that is without sin cast the first stone. . . . Let the 
bard speak for himself,—while at the same time he 
weaves for all his kind a shining vail of charity, 
beneath which the whitest of us may not scorn to 
shelter : 


Then gently scan your brother Man, 
Still gentler sister Woman ; 

Tho’ they may gang a kennin’ wrang, 
To step aside is human : 

One point must still be greatly dark 
The moving why they do it, 

And just as lamely can ye mark 
How far perhaps they rue it. 


Who made the heart, ’t is He alone 
Decidedly can try us, 

He knows each chord—its various tone, 
Each spring—its various bias: 


314 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


Then at the balance let’s be mute, 
We never can adjust it ; 

What ’s done we partly may compute, 
But know not what’s resisted / 


Poetry is a vague word. Philosophers and critics 
have not been very successful in defining it; and, in © 
most minds where the school-girl’s definition—that 
poetry means just long lines and short ones—is rejected 
as unsatisfactory, there exists but a dim and shifting 
idea of what poetry is and is not. There is a great 
distance, for instance, between the sublime periods of 
Milton, which appeal to the imagination, and some of 
the formal couplets of Pope, which do little more than 
tickle the ear. J think an approach may be made 
towards establishing for the subject manageable condi- 
tions, if we gather up the great mass of poetry into 
the form of a pyramid. At the base of the figure, I 
should place the works of those poets who have sounded 
the widest scale of song—whose poetry is built most 
broadly upon the hearts and minds of mankind. Rang- 
ing upward towards the apex should come the minstrelsy 
of narrower scope, and the pyramid would be crowned 
with that which is, perhaps, the highest order of poetry, 
while it certainly has the narrowest basis in human 
nature,—I mean that which is the offspring of pure 
imagination. If Shakespeare were not a pyramid in 
himself, broader than the broadest and as high as the 
highest, he should be the far-stretching foundation of 
the poetic pile. Just second to him, among all the 
poets of Anglo-Saxon speech, I would place Robert 
Burns. I have shown that he stood with his feet down 
upon the lower stratum of society, and that he sought 


ROBERT BURNS AND HIS POETRY. 315 


and found his poetic work right where he stood, and did 
it without airs or affectation. Thus, speaking truly 
what was in his own heart, he gave speech to the heart 
of humanity. Painting with conscientious fidelity the 
human nature around him, his pictures are true of 
men everywhere. Because he loved deeply and sang 
truly, it was given to him to sing the love-songs of the 
world. The fiery words he spoke in denunciation of 
the false, the mean, and the tyrannical, burn into the 
carcasses of tyranny, falsehood and meanness forever. 
His brave words of cheer to the down-hearted, of 
counsel to the doubting, of brotherly love to all, are 
like branches from the sacred tree cast into the Marah 
of human life. They sink into its bitter waters, and, 
beneath the spell of their virtue, the stream runs, 
sweetening in the sun, away to the ocean of eternity. 
Nor less potent was he, when he lifted his voice for 
trampled freedom,—for human equality and human 
rights,—for the precious doctrine of honest independ- 
ence. His words are the texts of a gospel that is to 
be preached to all the world; which echo from genera- 
tion to generation—from clime to clime. 

I wish to speak of but one other characteristic of 
Burns, namely, the intense love of and sympathy with 
all nature, animate and inanimate, which burned in his. 
soul and pervades his poetry. Better than any man I 
know of, he answers to Tennyson’s description of the 
poet, dowered as he was 

With the hate of hate, 
The scorn of scorn, the love of love. | 
But love was the ruling passion. It went out in a 
warm tide from his heart,—towards the poor among 


316 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


whom his lot was cast, first,—towards his country, next, 
—towards his race and nature, last. He did his best 
to help the misery that came within his reach; he wept 
over the sorrow he could not heal. The spirit of his 
song has entrance, alike, into palace and hovel; but its 
peculiar home is at the poor man’s hearth. There it 
sits, now, and will sit, while Love is mistress of the 
human heart. In its presence, Care will sometimes 
spread her dingy wings and take flight; Grief, herself, 
will melt to music and tears; Penury will stand trans- 
figured in her rags. Look, how the poet-magician en- 
tered, once, and made a temple of the peasant’s home, 
—a very Sabbath of sacredness and light and heavenly 
peace of ‘the cotter’s Saturday night’! Look, how 
he even took the coarse and homely fare of his peasant 
countrymen and seasoned it with his cheerful, kindly 
genius, so that the poor man thereafter might sit down 
contented—yea, proud—to his table, knowing that his 
‘haggis’ had been ennobled, his oat-meal porridge 
blessed, by the muse,—his kail spiced with Burns’ 
benediction ;—that kings do not sit to a banquet so 
enlivened by poetic wine! 

Speaking of the love with which Burns regarded 
mankind, I scarcely need say that womankind was not 
excluded from his heart, as they are from Mahomet’s 
paradise. ‘The lasses,’ he was accustomed to say, ‘I 
love them a’.’ For it was a part of his poetic creed 
that Nature— 


Her ’prentice hand she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 


He might, on just occasion, be rough and rude to men; ~ 


but his whole being softened in the presence of the 


bs a 4 
eee 


ROBERT BURNS AND HIS POETRY. 317 


gentler sex. Poesy knows no sweeter, tenderer voice 
than that in which he addressed his ‘ Mary in heaven.’ 
Woman never inspired more melting melody than that 
in which he bade eternal farewell to his sweet ‘ High- 
land Mary.’ 

Love of country was interwoven with every fiber of 
Burns’ frame. Scotland may well be proud of her son, 
for her fair fame was dearer to him than life. No 
painter, limning the face of his beloved, could dwell 
more devotedly upon his task than did Burns, when he 
turned his pen to speak of ‘Scotland, his auld respectit. 
mither.’ Upon the canvas of his verse she lives, with 
all her features of mountain, river, field, wood, burn 
and brae, forever glorious and beautiful. But his 
patriotism was no blind, undiscriminating passion. 
While he loved Scotland—because he loved her—he 
was no slavish partisan of the corrupt and capricious 
power that ruled her. He gloried in her constitution 
and her charter of rights; but his muse administered 
most unpalatable advice to the king, and took still 
more improper liberties with the king’s ministers. His 
love of freedom led him to sympathize keenly with the 
French in their revolutionary struggle, and to oppose 
most warmly the war that Britain waged to maintain 
the stability of the rotten old thrones of LKurope. 
How he regarded the infant republic that sprang into 
existence on our own soil, during his young manhood, 
' may be guessed from an incident of his career as an 
exciseman. It occurred at a dinner in Dumfries, 
attended, for the most part, by government officials, 
like himself. After the Scottish drink had circulated 
freely, some one proposed the health of William Pitt, 


318 - LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


the prime minister at that time. ‘I give you the health 
of George Washington,—a greater and better man,’ 
cried Burns. The company demurred, and the poet 
left the room in disgust. 

How the heart of Burns went out in tenderness to 
all created things is better illustrated in his own 
Address to a Mouse than another writer could do it 
in volumes. Like the mountain daisy of which I have 
spoken, the nest of the little animal had been turned 
under by Burns’ plough. . .. Could anything more 
be said to prove the all-embracing sympathy of Burns’ 
nature? Yes; and Burns has said it. It is in his 
Address to the Deil, wherein, after recounting the 
mischiefs for which his Satanic Majesty is held respon- 
sible, the poet first anathematizes, then scolds, and at 
last fairly pities, in this fashion: . 


But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought and men’ ! 
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken— 
Still hae a stake— 
T’m wae to think upo’ yon den, 
Even for your sake ! 


Milton paints Satan a desperate yet valiant and almost 
chivalric warrior; Goethe makes his Mephistopheles a 
cunning, malicious, yet gentlemanly fiend; Burns, too, 
calls up the Devil to sit for his portrait, but dismisses 
him with a pitying wish for his reformation ! 

I wish to glance, now, for a few moments, at the 
influence exerted by Burns and his works upon the 
literature and the life of the age. It is almost super- 
fluous to say that he is, to Scotland, even more than a 
Shakespeare. The tongue in which he wrote is a 


a eee eS a 


ROBERT BURNS AND HIS POETRY. 319 


language, not a mere dialect. The direct outgrowth 
of the Saxon invasion, it, or something like it, per- 
vaded England and Scotland, alike, as late as the 
thirteenth century. The English under Edward and 
the Scotch under Bruce, when they clashed on the field 
of Bannockburn, spoke a common tongue. Scotland, 
isolated and unvisited by. further invasion, kept it with 
little change, until Burns made it classic. In England, 
on the other hand, the mingling of the Norman ele- 
ment cut down its grotesque syllables, added new 
words and softened. the terminations of old ones, until 
it came, through the filter of Chaucer, Spenser and 
Shakespeare, to be the English of the present day. 
But, though thus noble and ancient in its origin, 
around the Scottish language no rich or copious litera- 
ture has crystallized. A stream of purest song has, 
indeed, trickled down from the mountains and out of 
unexplorable recesses of the past,—now murmuring 
madrigals of the softest beauty,—now dashing over 
rocks in cataracts of wildest passion,—anon, spreading 
in pellucid deeps of rarest melody; but deduct this, 
with the writings of half-a-dozen minor poets, and 
Scottish literature, until Burns, is almost a nullity. 
He it is who has deepened and widened and filled full 
the rivulet of Scottish minstrelsy. He has made the 
rugged Dorie of his fathers to be read in all lands, 
from the backwoods of this continent to the sultry 
plains of the Orient. And, should his mother tongue, 
at last, be lost in the broader, stronger current of 
English speech, he will have built the beautiful monu- 
ment of the departed language. Long may its death 
be delayed; for in its rough but expressive syllables 


320 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


are embalmed ideas of beauty which will die with it! 
Its grave would cover the last fragments of a nation- 
ality which has been the brave nurse of heroes and 
which is still glorious with the deeds of Wallace and 
Bruce. The flow of its music, now tender, now wild, 
is caught from the winds and the woods, from the 
burns and the birds of auld Scotland; and, if it should 
die, the memory of its sweetness would haunt the 
Scottish heart, like the voice of a mother who has been 
years and years in heaven. 

I think it may be shown that, to no insignificant 
extent, H’nglish literature has been vitalized and en- 
riched by the writings of Robert Burns. He was born 
in the barrenest, forlornest period of that literature. 
The golden sun of the Elizabethan era had set in a 
murky vapor of conventionality. The star of Milton, 
too, had gone down; and such will-o’-the-wisps as Prior, 
Pope, Gay and Parnell had flashed abroad, only to 
make darkness visible. Not even Thomson and Gold- 
smith and Gray, with their contemporaries, who fol- 
lowed, had been able to break the dense shell of arti- 
ficiality which encrusted poetry. With the restoration 
of the monarchy, the art of verse-making had fallen 
into the hands of court-fools and laureates equally 
foolish. To write poetry was to string stilted couplets 
into fulsome eulogy of some influential person, or in 
malignant satire of some harmless one. The heart of 
the land seemed to be in the process of ossification. 
Form took the place of soul; licentiousness served for 
imagination; falsehood wore the mask and did the 
duty of feeling. Ina word, at the beginning of the 
latter half of the eighteenth century the body of 


ROBERT BURNS AND HIS POETRY. Sab 


English poetry had shrunk to a mere skeleton; breath 
it seemed to have none. Whence came that marvelous 
infusion of new life with which, in the half century 
following, it was suddenly thrilled? . . . I do not 
seek to point the paternity of the last great period in 
English literature ; but this I assert, without fear: that 
the first star which rose in that splendid heaven of 
genius,—which led up the shining constellations,—was 
Robert Burns. The sky of poesy was lonely when he 
moved to his post in the van of the starry march. But, 
quick, came ‘Wordsworth, and beamed with a calm 
planetary light. Coleridge arose and set the east 
ablaze with splendor. Byron flashed, a glorious 
meteor, among the celestial train. Scott, another 
Mars of song, stood suddenly in the northern heaven. 
The ray of Shelley’s star shot, trembling and delicate, 
from the highest regions of the blue; while the wan, 
yet beautiful, orb of Keats made its brief circuit near 
the horizon,—and, heaven upon heaven, rose the hosts 
of other and scarcely lesser lights. But all these found 
their pathway made bright and easy; for Burns had 
traversed it before them. Even into the hands of 
Cowper, who is the first poet of the revival, had fallen. 
the shabby little Kilmarnock book of the Scottish 
ploughman’s songs. Not one of the others but revered 
him as a master. Byron declared him the greatest 
poet, next to Shakespeare, of the language ; Keats made 
a pilgrimage of love to his grave. Fresh and brim- 
ming from the fountain of Nature was the cup of 
poesy which he had brought, and men, thirsty with an 
age of drought, quaffed eagerly and drank deeply of 


its crystal contents. .. . 
21 


oe ’ LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


All this might have happened, even if the voice of 
Burns had never been heard beyond his native mead- 
ows; but none the less truly did all this follow, in 
logical sequence, the event of his poet-birth. The new 
dawn of British poesy reddened upon the shores of 
morning when he stood beside the Scottish lassie, in 
the field of the reapers, and the dream of love, born 
of her blue eyes, rose upon him in the light of beauty 
and melted into rhyme. 


en 


ae Saree lhe CUT 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. _ ae 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. 


From a lecture delivered before the Buffalo Society of Natural 
Sciences, 1876. 


How is it to fare with Poetry in a world transformed 
by Science? Coleridge defined poetry as the antithesis 
of science. It is certain that the clear, dry sky of 
scientific knowledge is utterly unlike that vague atmos- 
phere of dream and phantasy in which the Muse has 
been wont to move and have her being. Her ancient 
haunts of tradition and sweet illusion are fast breaking 
up. Is there danger that Poetry will be driven to emi- 
grate, like wild game when settlers come and clear 
away the forests? It is certain that the poets have 
not been free from apprehension on this score. Edgar 
Allan Poe, from whose Sonnet to Science, I have 
already quoted a couplet, puts the case thus passion- 
ately to the innovator: ‘ Hast thou not,’ he says— 


Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? 
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood 
To seek a shelter in some happier star? 
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, 
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me 
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree ? 


324 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


And the same complaint and protest Schiller utters 
in the person of his Max Piccolomini, in Wallenstein : 


The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 

The fair humanities of old religion, 

The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 

That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 

Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 

Or chasms and watery depths ; all these have vanish’d. 
They live no longer in the faith of reason! 


And to yon starry world they now are gone, 
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 
With man as with their friend. 


Leaving the poets, if we should question that re- 
spectable oracle, the ‘ reading public,’ I think we should 
find further ground for alarm as to the prosperity of 
the Muse. For is it not true that, within a few years, 
the men of science have furnished most of the reading 
matter of the people? Moreover, does not the mind, 
fed with the solid acquisitions of science, or stimulated 
by its splendid discoveries, grow less and less tolerant 
of imaginings which add nothing to stock of knowledge, 
and melodies which convey no information? Our poets 
ransack the universe for fresh themes, and vie with the 
india-rubber man of the circus in the agilities of their 
art; but, at best, the interest they arouse is languid and 
brief. ‘The truth is,’ says the admirable author of 
The Victorian Poets, ‘our school-girls and spinsters 
wander down the lanes with Darwin, Huxley and 
Spencer under their arms; or, if they carry Tennyson, 
Longfellow and Morris, read them in the light of spec- 
trum analysis, or test them by the economics of Mill 
and Bain.’ 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. O20 


These things we might regard as the flying scud and 
spray of tendency which announce a coming wave. 
And, indeed, there is an impending breaker, dark and 
threatening enough of aspect, which men already dis- 
cern and have named. 

The scientific hypothesis which finds in matter ‘the 
promise and potency of every form and quality of 
life’; which announces mind as but an effluence of 
matter, and man as differing in degree but not in kind 
from Nature’s lowest form; which discovers the genesis 
of man’s loftiest and sacredest ideas in blind move- 
ments of the brute, and which, in thus bounding our 
past, denies our future ;—this hypothesis, I say, has 
already, with various modifications, become a creed. 
The ablest expounders of the Evolution theory, I 
believe, are careful to explain that, even if it shall 
some time pass into the domain of demonstrated knowl- 
edge, it will not say all that is to be said of man, his 
nature and his destiny. But the disciple is generally 
less cautious than the master, and, accordingly, there is 
a large and growing class of intellectual men for whom 
the high-water mark of modern knowledge is a scien- 
tific materialism that tolerates no qualification or sup- 
plement. J am not here to discuss the merits of the 
philosophy of Spencer and Darwin; I do not know 
enough, and, were I a thousand times equipped for the 
task, I should say, Let it pass to the test of time, which 
tries all! But, gentlemen, my whole being rises in me 
when I assert that, if the tremendous assumption of 
these men shall ever in its entirety become accepted, 
evident truth, with that time there will come, also, a 
counter-statement of science which will conserve the 


326 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


spiritual oxygen of our world, and save the souls of 
men from death by asphyxiation. 

It seems to me that a natural history of the poetic 
faculty and emotion, such as has yet to be compiled, 
will contribute largely to the affirmation of that other 
side of truth from which the face of the absorbed 
observer of material phenomena is necessarily turned. 
Poetry has its basis in that portion of our nature 
which is capable of transcending, in its cognitions, the 
objects of observation and reason. Call this the emo- 
tional part of us, or the spiritual, or what you will, or 
insist that it is but a function, or form of activity, of 
the invisible mind, and the fact still remains that 
thereby every man that lives, or with whom history 
acquaints us, has sustained some sort of relations to 
that transmaterial sphere which scientists agree to 
name the Unknowable. This fact, alone, should offer, 
I think, at least, strong presumptive evidence that man 
is something more than the merely material animal of 
whom the naturalist gives his account. But let us see 
in what manner poetry attests the spiritual nature of 
man and bears witness of truths beyond the reach of 
science. And here I am fortunate in being able to 
quote the words of a writer who represents, perhaps, 
better than any other American, the scientific school of 
which Herbert Spencer is the greatest teacher. I refer 
to John Fiske, author of Outlines of Cosmic Philoso- 
phy, who, in a recently published essay, sums up the 
latest dicta of Science as to the universe and its des- 
tiny. ‘A senseless bubble-play of Titan forces, with 
life, love and aspiration brought forth only to be ex- 
tinguished,’ is ‘the awful picture,’ he says, ‘which 


ee 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. yal 


science shows us, and before this picture he thus 
meditates: ‘The human mind, however “scientific” in 
its training, must often recoil from the conclusion that 
this is all; and there are moments when one passion- 
ately feels that this cannot be all. On warm June 
mornings, in green country lanes, with sweet pine-odors 
waited in the breeze which sighs through the branches, 
and cloud-shadows flitting over far-off blue mountains, 
while little birds sing their love songs, and golden- 
haired children weave garlands of wild roses; or when, 
in the solemn twilight, we listen to wondrous harmonies 
of Beethoven and Chopin, that stir the heart like 
voices from an unknown world; at such times one 
feels that the profoundest answer which science can 
give to our questionings is but a superficial answer 
after all. At these moments, when the world seems 
fullest of beauty, one feels most strongly that it is but 
the harbinger of something else,—that the ceaseless 
play of phenomena is no mere sport of Titans, but an 
orderly scene, with its reason for existing, its 


One divine far-off event 
To which the whole creation moves. ’ 


No better illustration could be desired of the mode 
in which the poetic sentiment or emotion hints to our 
minds the transcendent verities of existence. Gazing 
at a lovely landscape, or at some weird after-sunset 
play of clouds in the western sky, we are cognizant, 
through this emotion, of elements in the scene which 
have no record in the books of the scientist. He can 
tell us the geology of the distant hills over which our 
eyes strain and our hearts yearn; he will easily explain 


328 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


the laws of light and of atmospheric action in accord- 
ance with which the cloud-curtain is hung for a moment 
between our eyes and immeasurable space; but the 
vision which has meanwhile been ours remains a secret 
between the seeing soul and the infinite beyond of 
which it has had tidings. 

The poetic emotion, then, as I must call it, for lack 
of a better phrase, is that endowment of our nature— 
possessed in a greater or less degree by universal man- 
kind—by which you and I are enabled to take cogni- 
zance of a spiritual side of things,—by force of which 
come our higher yearnings, ardors, aspirations. ‘The 
poetic faculty, again, is that gift of the poet whereby, 
entering into the ideal world, he is able to give us 
report of its eternal facts. And, such is the inherent 
quality of the poet’s high themes, that language must 
take wings of music in order to meet it and bring it 
from the heaven of his vision down to men. Measure 
and melody are the conditions upon which poetic 
thought consents to be wedded to words. 

This emotion, therefore, to which the poet, with his 
vision and faculty divine, gives voice or makes appeal, 
is at once an evidence of our higher nature and an im- 
pulse to its development. This it is which sometimes 
causes a flower to bloom at the dusty way-side of life, 
or fresh fountains to spring in the crossings of the 
desert. It is the fire of the fly; the glow of the poor 
earth-born worm. To it, in tones of his own, each of 
a thousand poets has spoken. In the vision of Homer, 
we behold human conflict haloed with a heroic light, 
while gods and mortals meet in middle sky. The 
world-embracing stage behind which he stands whose 





SCIENCE AND POETRY. 329 


poet’s eye glanced ‘from heaven to earth, from earth 
to heaven,’ and whose pen gave 


To airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name, 


shows us the common world of matter and men, indeed, 
but transfigured and lifted into true spiritual relations. 
The song of Tennyson equally repeats, above the din 
of modern life, its part of the immortal harmonies of 
the ‘ choir invisible.’ 

‘Beauty,’ says Ruskin, ‘is the signature of God 
upon all His works.’ This beauty it is the office of 
Poetry to discover and reproduce in art. The visible 
heaven and earth are everywhere stamped with this 
divine seal. But it is not merely, nor chiefly, the 
earthly beautiful which Poetry sees and celebrates. 
With the esthetic sentiment, which takes pleasure in 
Beauty as she is perceived by the senses, is joined in 
the human soul an unquenchable thirst for a supernal 
loveliness. ‘This thirst,’ said Poe, in his definition of 
what he named ‘the poetic principle,’ ‘ belongs to the 
immortality of man. It is at once a consequence and 
an indication of his perennial existence. It is the 
desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appre- 
ciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild effort to 
reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic pre- 
science of the glories beyond the grave, we struggle, by 
multiform combinations among the things and thoughts 
of time, to attain a portion of that loveliness whose very 
elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone.’ To 
Poetry, accordingly, the whole material creation is 
but a garment of the eternal and infinite Beautiful. 


330 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


Through the thin and perishable vail of matter she 
catches glimpses of an inner glory. Stand with her 
when the out-streaming radiance smites her on the face, 
and your feet tread almost on holy ground. Not far 
off passes Religion, and enters in within the vail. 

It follows, I think, if poetry be thus rooted in an 
essential part of our nature, that it is in no real danger 
of becoming obsolete. Science and poetry will continue 
to co-exist, and may even become good friends. The 
dauntless and tireless scientist will not cease to ques- 
tion nature and push outward the lines of physical 
knowledge; but, on the other hand, he can scarcely make 
any serious invasion of Poetry’s spiritual domain. The 
tide of materialism, of which we spoke before, will 
do no harm by driving her to higher ground. And, 
here, let me forestall possible misapprehension by re- 
cording, once for all, my sincere though humble and 
unintelligent homage to the modern scientific worker, 
whose arrival among us is a bright omen of our time. 
Who, before him, has shown a more unselfish, unwearied 
devotion to appointed duty; a more ready loyalty to 
truth? If that truth be sometimes a fragment rather 
than a rounded whole; if, in his rapt contemplation of 
the material facts of the universe, he fails to do justice 
to its spiritual realities, let us remember that his very 
disability is a measure of his self-sacrifice, and that 
rarely without the payment of such penalties can spe- 
cial study be successfully pursued. ‘That he is willing 
thus to immolate himself on the altar of his specialty ; 
that his capital of tireless patience and varied intellect- 
ual resource are freely spent, if thereby he may ransom 
a new fact from the unknown, surely entitles him to 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. Sav 


the world’s gratitude. There is no money in his busi- 
ness, nor much of popular applause. He works for his 
work’s sake, and only in the consciousness that it will 
add something to the common stock of knowledge does. 
he find or seek reward. We who, without sharing his 
toil, are permitted to enjoy its results, should at least 
be ready to own our debt. The air is vexed, just now, 
‘with talk of the conflict of science with this ‘and that; 
but who needs to be told that, while the theories and 
speculations of scientists may well be heretical, the 
facts and demonstrations of science can be at war with 
no truth? The book of Nature is God’s book, and 
men cannot study it too diligently nor draw too copi- 
ously from its stores of wisdom. Nor do I know how 
a man can be honest with himself and towards his 
Maker unless he stands ready to prove all things, 
holding fast that which is good. The things that can 
be shaken, let them fall—the quicker the better—that 
‘those things which cannot be shaken may remain.’ 
What is true of truth is equally true of poetry. No 
extension of scientific knowledge can ever make the 
universe less full of wonder. That knowledge, when 
it shall have drawn its widest circle, will still be but a 
tiniest islet in the infinite ocean of the unknown. 
Around its shores will brood a mystery denser than 
that which shrouded the fabled Hesperides. Whatever, 
therefore, has been wont to stir the human heart to 
poetic emotion is likely still to remain in undiminishe 
quantity. Nor will the need of poetry grow perma- 
nently less. Intellectual concentration demands its 
counterpoise in enlargement of the imagination. An 
abundance of the bread of prose calls for liberal 


332 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


draughts of the poetic wine. The world will still need 
its knowledge transmuted to wisdom—its facts divinely 
set on fire of the muse. 

Having succeeded in lodging our Lady of the Lyre 
in a place of safety, we may proceed to inquire what 
relations Science and Poetry have sustained to and are 
likely to establish with each other, and what may be 
the prospect of ultimate alliance between the pair. 
And, first, we note that the history of scientific prog- 
ress discloses the scientist frequently in debt, if not to 
the poet, to that important element of the poetic faculty 
named the imagination. This is, indeed, implied in 
what has been already said of scientific speculation 
and hypothesis, which result from the effort of the 
mind to project its guess, or intuition of truth, in 
advance of known facts. ‘Science does not know its 
debt to imagination,’ says Emerson in his last volume. 
‘Goethe did not believe that a great naturalist could 
exist without this faculty. He was himself conscious 
of its help, which made him a prophet among the doc- 
tors. From this vision he gave brave hints to the 
zoologist, the botanist, and the optician.’ ‘ Have I not 
sufficient reason to feel proud,’ exclaims the great Ger- 
man, himself, ‘when, for twenty years, I have been 
forced to own to myself that the great Newton, and 
all mathematicians and august calculators with him, 
have fallen into a decided error respecting the theory 
of colors; and that I, amongst millions, am the only 
one who knows the truth on this important subject?’ 
In like manner, as the astronomer Kepler exultingly 
confessed, it was a divine guess which gave to the 
world his famous laws of planetary movement. ‘I care 


ee eS ey 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. oar 


not whether my work be read now or by posterity,’ he 
eried. ‘I can afford to wait a century for readers, 
when God himself has waited six thousand years for 
an observer. I triumph. I have stolen the golden 
secret of the Egyptians. I will indulge my sacred 
fury.’ Manifestly here again we have a poet as well 
as discoverer ; who, indeed, discovered by virtue of his 
poetic faculty. 

But, I think, Emerson to the contrary notwithstand- 
ing, the scientists are now ready enough to concede the 
extent of their obligations to the imagination. ‘The 
instrument of discovery in science,’ Sir Benjamin 
Brodie has termed it, ‘without the aid of which New- 
ton would never have invented fluxions, nor Davy have 
decomposed the earths and alkalies, nor would Colum- 
bus have found out another continent.’ And, ‘in fact,” 
adds Tyndall, ‘without this power our knowledge of 
nature would be a mere tabulation of coexistencies and 
sequences. We should still believe in the succession 
of day and night, of summer and winter, but the soul of 
force would be dislodged from our universe; casual rela- 
tions would disappear, and with them that science which 
is now binding the parts of nature to an organic whole.’ 

But, even more interesting than the achievements of 
the imagination in science, are the anticipations of 
scientific thought and discovery to be met with in 
poetry. It is one of the remarkable facts in the his- 
tory of the human mind that the theory of the consti- 
tution of matter now accepted by scientific men is 
found projected with wonderful detail in the rolling 
hexameters of a Roman poet, who lived a century before 
the Christian era. The ‘atom’ of modern chemistry, 


334 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


hunted long and found, at last, in these latter days, in 
the dark of its own invisibility, is identical with the 
ultimate, indivisible, indestructible ‘seed,’ or ‘ shape,’ 
or ‘first-beginning’ of Lucretius. From its combina- 
tions all forms of matter proceed. ‘The whole nature 
of these “ first-beginnings,” ’ he says, ‘lies far beneath 
the ken of sense. Strong in their solid singleness,’ 
they cannot be worn away, ‘though stricken by count- 
less blows through eternity.’ It is true, the atomic 
theory is two centuries older than Lucretius, but it’ is 
in his poem on ‘ Nature’ that we find its elaboration, 
every leading feature of which science has either veri- 
fied or found to be a foreshadowing of the fact. Even 
the modern doctrines of the nature of force and the 
conservation of energy are predicted in this poet’s mar- 
velous apocalypse of the mysteries of the cosmic order. 

It would be easy to glean from Shakespeare a sheaf of 
scientific auguries. Puck’s ‘girdle round the earth in 
forty minutes’ has become a familiar citation in these 
days of electric telegraph cables; but here is a less 
noticed passage, which is quite as striking as a forecast 
of the development theory—natural selection, survival 
of the fittest, origin of species, and all: 


Nature is made better by no mean, 
But nature makes that mean: so, over that art 
Which you say adds to nature, is an art 
That nature makes. ... 
We marry 
A gentler scion to the wildest stock, 
And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
By bud of nobler race: This is an art 
Which does mend nature,—change it rather; but 
The art itself is nature.— Winter's Tale. 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. OOD 


In the works of a little known English poet, who 
died some years before Darwin published, we find a 
still bolder statement of the latter’s theory as it refers 
to the origin of man. It is Thomas Lovell Beddoes, 
a man of undoubted genius, though of posthumous 
fame, who, through a character in one of his tragedies, 
thus speaks : 

I have a bit of Miat in my soul, 
And can myself create my little world; 
Had I been born a four-legged child, methinks 


I might have found the steps from dog to man, 
And crept into his nature. 


So much for the obligations of Science to the poets, 
and to their peculiar weapon, the imagination. Has 
Poetry been able to draw from Science her payment 
of the debt? Thus far, I think, the question must be 
given a negative answer. The poets do not yet seem 
able to assimilate with ease the strong food cooked for 
them in the crucible and retort of the physicist. True, 
the spread of scientific knowledge has had its influence 
on recent poetry. The votary of the muse, in dealing 
with natural objects, is instinctively more truthful in 
his descriptions than of yore. The flowers with which 
he decks his verse betray a knowledge of botany that 
was not always his, and he is careful to refer to the 
naturalist before committing himself to any statement 
of zoological fact. Numerous words, phrases, and 
figures of speech have also found their way out of the 
laboratory and museum to enrich the bard’s vocabulary. 
Nay, we even see in the newspapers, now and then, a 
violent attempt to smuggle science, wholesale, through 
the lines of poetry, as when the enamored scientist 


336 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


calls on his adored ‘ highest of vertebrates’ to alleviate 
the disturbed condition of his nerve-centers, and in 
woful numbers tells the chemical analysis of the wasted 
tissue her unkindness has cost him. But this sort of 
thing, it will be admitted, does not promise much for 
the ultimate harmony of Science and Poetry. The 
truth is, the poets up to this time, as a friend of mine 
recently remarked, ‘have gone to science with the aims 
of milliners. They have borrowed from her a little 
finery to ornament their stanzas. To point a com- 
parison, to gild their style, to color their mysticism, 
are the only tax they have laid upon her.’ 

From this criticism, two living poets must be cor- 
dially exempted, to wit, Emerson and Tennyson. The 
poems of the former are distinctly imbued with the 
modern scientific knowledge, albeit the whole mass of 
it seems to have fallen and melted, as easily as a snow- 
flake, in the all-embracing ocean of the poet’s idealism. 
We need not look for any trace of materialism, at any 
rate, in a writer who declares that ‘the higher use of 
the material world is but to furnish types to express 
the thoughts of the mind,’ and to whom ‘nature itself 
is only a vast trope.’ Yet Emerson tells us how— 


The gentler deities 
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds, 
The innumerable tenements of beauty, 
The miracle of generative force, 
Far-reaching concords of astronomy 
Felt in.the plants, and in the punctual birds; 
Better, the linkéd purpose of the whole. 


Here, too, is a strain which an English scientist has 
taken as a fit motto for one of his profoundest dis- 
courses on material nature: 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. 337 


Hearken ! hearken ! 
If thou wouldst know the mystic song 
Chanted when the sphere was young. 
Aloft, abroad, the pzan swells ; 


To the open ear it sings 

Sweet the genesis of things, 

Of tendency through endless ages, 

Of star-dust, and star-pilgrimages, 

Of rounded worlds, of space and time, 
Of the old flood’s subsiding slime, 

Of chemic matter, force and form, 

Of poles and powers, cold, wet, and warm ; 
The rushing metamorphosis, 

Dissolving all that fixture is, 

Melts things that be to things that seem, 
And solid nature to a dream. 


If Emerson shows us modern materialism taken up 
and held, so to speak, in complete solution in his larger 
spiritualism, no less clearly does Tennyson reflect the 
turmoil of the two still unharmonized elements. In his 
early poem of Locksley Hall we find him exulting 
in the scientific conquests of his age: 


Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh 
the sun;— 


and later, in the Jn Memoriam, acknowledging the 
same strong inspiration, he asks himself: 


Is this an hour— 


A time to sicken and to swoon, 
When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 
Her secret from the latest moon? 


338 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


But the grand debate of the Jn Memoriam is that 
carried on between the suggestions of this Science on 
the one hand and the poet’s own spiritual intuitions on 
the other. Remember how he confronts the idea on 
which Science would have us place such gloomy stress, 
of the pitilessness of Nature: 


Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life. 


But this is not the worst. He has appealed to 
Nature, and she makes answer: 


‘So careful of the type?’ But no. 
From scarpéd cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone : 
I care for nothing, al) shall go. 


Thou makest thine appeal to me: 

I bring to life, I bring to death : 
’ The spirit does but mean the breath : 
I know no more.’ And he, shall he, 


Man, her last work, who seemed so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, 
Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 


Who trusted God was love indeed 

And love Creation’s final law— 

Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw 
With ravine, shrieked against his creed— 


Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills, 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal’d within the iron hills? 


———_ —-—_ ~~ * *. = 


SCIENCE AND POETRY. 339 


No more? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime, 
That tear each other in their slime 

Were mellow music match’d with him. 


Thus far the negations of Science: the replication 
is that of an older authority: 


I trust I have not wasted breath ; 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Magnetic mockeries ; not in vain 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 


Not only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 
At least, tome? I would not stay. 


Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 


That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt ; 
He, They, One, All; within, without ; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 


I found Him not in world or sun, 

Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye ; 

Nor thro’ the questions men may try, 
The petty cobwebs we have spun ; 


If e’er, when faith had fall’n asleep, 
I heard a voice, ‘ Believe no more,’ 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep; 


A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason’s colder part, 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer’d, ‘I have felt.’ 


340 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


No, like a child in doubt and fear; 
But that blind clamor made me wise ; 
Then was I as a child that cries, 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 


And what I am beheld again 
What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 
That reach thro’ Nature, moulding men. 


I have read you so much of this, not alone to illus- 
trate the impress of science on the song of the great 
poet of our time, but also to exemplify what we have 
already asserted as a perennial office of poetry, viz., 
to affirm the spiritual nature of man and give expres- 
sion to its Imextinguishable intuitions. It is plain, I 
think, from the brief review we have given, that here, 
as at other points of contact, the reciprocal attitude of 
Science and Poetry is not yet all that could be desired. 
Science, thus far, is aggressive. Poetry struggles to 
assert herself among unfamiliar surroundings. For 
her it is a period of transition. What prospect, if 
any, is discernible of a better understanding between 
the twain ? 

As we have already allowed two of the poets to 
utter their apprehensions of war, I am rejoiced to be 
able at this point to introduce two authoritative voices 
which prophesy peace. Luckily, too, one is that of a 
great poet, and the other that of an eminent living 
scientist. It is Wordsworth who has left on record 
the words following: ‘The objects of the poet’s 
thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses 
of men are, it is true, his favorite guides, yet he will 
follow wherever he can find an atmosphere of sensation 





SCIENCE AND POETRY. 341 


in which to move his wings. Poetry is the first and 
last of all knowledge,—it is immortal as the heart of 
man. If the labors of the men of science should ever 
create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in 
our condition and in the impressions which we habitu- 
ally receive, the poet will sleep then no more than at 
present; he will be ready to follow the steps of the 
man of science, not only in those general indirect 
effects, but he will be at his side, carrying sensation 
into the midst of the objects of science itself. The 
remotest discoveries of the chemist, the botanist, or the 
mineralogist will be as proper objects of the poet’s art 
as any upon which it can be employed, if the time 
should ever come when these things shall be familiar 
to us, and the relations under which they are contem- 
plated by the followers of the respective sciences shall 
be manifestly and palpably material to us, as enjoying 
and suffering beings. If the time should ever come 
when what is now called science, thus familiarized to 
men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of 
flesh and blood, the poet will lend his divine spirit to 
aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the being thus 
produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the house- 
hold of man.’ 

So far, the poet, who little dreamed, we imagine, that 
the time for testing the truth of his remarkable pre- 
monition would come, as it has, so soon. And now I 
quote from Professor Tyndall, one of the broadest and 
noblest in spirit, as he is intellectually one of the ablest 
of contemporary men of science. He says: ‘The 
position of science is already assured; but I think the 
poet, also, will have a great part to play in the future 


342 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


of the world. To him it will be given for a long time 
to come to fill those shores which the recession of the 
theologic tide has left exposed; to him, when he rightly 
understands his mission, and does not flinch from the 
tonic discipline which it assuredly demands, we have a 
right to look for that heightening and brightening of 
life which so many of us need. He ought to be the 
interpreter of that power which has hitherto filled and 
strengthened the human heart.’ 

It is certain that the conditions imagined by Words- 
worth are soon to become actual. The vast field of 
scientific knowledge, with its wealth of new and inspir- 
ing facts, its marvelous discoveries, its sublime general- 
izations, is rapidly becoming the familiar possession of 
mankind. Into it, as Wordsworth foretold, poetry 
must straightway enter. The poet formulates and even 
anticipates his epoch, but cannot stay outside of it. 
He must ever be the most modern among his contem- 
poraries. The new material of science, therefore, will 
be woven into the fabric of his loom. ‘The milk of 
science will go to make the blood of the muse.’ What 
novel forms or hues may thus be introduced into poetry, 
we shall not know till the poet of the future tells us; 
but some of the influences hereafter to be felt in his 
art we may perhaps conjecture. That ‘tonic discipline,’ 
for example, of which Prof. Tyndall speaks, and which 
science is so apt to afford, may give us ground for 
hope. The intellectual sanity which comes from a 
broad study and clear views of nature must effectually 
rid the poet of whatever morbid humors now taint his 
verse. A corresponding enlightenment of his audi- 
ence, moreover, will compel him to the rejection of 





SCIENCE AND POETRY. 343 


whatever is spurious in feeling and thought. He will 
not, indeed, cease to speak of. nature as she reflects 
herself in his own soul, but he will realize for himself 
and his race nobler, juster relations to all external 
things. ‘The splendor of meaning that plays over the 
visible world,’ and which it is his to interpret, must 
increase withr the enlargement of his intellectual vision. 
He will not slight the dire lesson of human littleness 
which science teaches, as it never was taught before. 
‘Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him,’ 
sang the bard of ancient Israel, and modern discovery 
gives fresh and awful significance to the strain. But 
now, even as then, there must await a larger truth to 
be pealed forth in joyous, sublime antiphony. ‘Thou 
hast. made him,’ breaks forth, again, the psalmist, ‘a 
little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with 
glory and honor.’ It will surely be for the coming 
bard to lift, above the noise of the world’s intellectual 
activity, a new song of spiritual cheer for humanity. 
To him, as to none of his predecessors, will be given 
glimpses of the divine wisdom that orders the universe 
—readings of the eternal runes of nature. Think you 
that science has exhausted, or can exhaust, the sense 
of these sacred texts? For myself, I prefer to think 
of knowledge—of- the acquisitions of the intellect— 
rather as a means to high ends than as an end in them- 
selves. Better than to comprehend the mathematies, 
is to know the music, of the spheres. 

In a word, it remains for Poetry to extend the am- 
plest hospitality to the results of science; to feed her 
insight with its revelations; to accept gratefully its 
stimulus, its correction, its inspirations. Science, on 


344 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


the other hand, will recognize a higher knowledge, and 
learn the reverence that beseems her august office. 
The sacred vessels of the temple wherein she serves 
she will handle as priestess, not scullion. Already the 
signs abound of the advent of this better scientific 
spirit. 
Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail 
Against her beauty? May she mix 


With men and prosper! Who shall fix 
Her pillars? Let her work prevail. 


But let her know well her limitations: 


Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain,— 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith, 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 


Of demons? fiery-hot to burst 

All barriers in her onward race 

For power. Let her know her place; 
She is the second, not the first. 


A higher hand must make her mild, 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With Wisdom, like the younger child. 


This should be the lesson and end of my discourse, 
but, if you will allow me to reverse the usual order, 
having drawn my moral, I will close with a story. It 
shall be very short : 


A few years ago I ascended the famous Mount Etna, 
in Sicily. Twelve miles of rugged, up-hill driving 
brought us from the sea-shore to the point on the 
mountain-side where the serious work of the ascent 


a 





SCIENCE AND POETRY. 345 


begins. A little hamlet, named Nicolosi, built of lava, 
stands here, marking the line where cultivation ends, 
and above which the devastation of the voleano is per- 
petual. We arrived late in the afternoon and were to 
rest till midnight, when the start for the summit would 
be made. I strolled from the single little inn and 
sought the house of the venerable savant of the vil- 
lage, Dr. Gemmelaro. He might well be called ‘the 
old man of the mountain.’ An accomplished scientist, 
for fifty years, I think he informed me, he had lived 
up there, his hand always on Etna’s pulse, the watcher 
of its uneasy slumbers, the historian of its eruptions. 
He told me much of the volcano and his life-long vigil 
on its side. At last, leaving the genial old gentleman, 
I sauntered, full of scientific information, ap through 
the village, and took a view of the region towards the 
summit. I was visibly on the slope of the mountain, 
the surface of which in my vicinity was composed of 
soft ashes, utterly barren and black. Looking up- 
wards, I could see half-a-dozen or more voleanic cones 
which had been craters in their day, and which rose 
like little warts on the vast side of Etna himself. The 


- whole scene was one of unspeakable desolation. It 


realized, somewhat, the dream of science of the ultimate 
doom of things. Eight or nine thousand feet above, 
towered Etna, and, while his form was wrapped in 
clouds and mystery, his seemed a palpable and awful, 
though invisible, presence. As I stood in the gathering 
dusk a girl came tripping up from the village and 
passed me, a lighted lantern in her hand. Curious to 
learn her errand, I watched her pick her way among 
the cinder, up the mountain. She stopped at a rude 


346 LECTURES: AND MISCELLANY. 


shrine of lava, which I had not noticed before, and 
which rose from a black hillock overlooking the village. 
The shrine contained a lamp, which she carefully lit. 
She hurried down again and homeward; but the seed 
of light she had planted in the dark sprang up and 
gleamed like a star. Soon the blackness of the night 
came down on the blackness of the mountain; Nicolosi 
and a score of villages far below went to sleep, and still 
I watched the cheerful glimmer of the maiden’s light. 
Set at the edge of the awful waste, a simple spark of 
human faith and aspiration, it seemed to defy the 
horror of the great darkness around it. I remembered 
that, in the hidden cloud above, slept the fires of 
Etna—that mighty smithy where Hephestus and 
his Cyclopean helpers forged the forees of nature. 
But a power higher than nature and stronger than its 
merciless forces was that of which the light in the lava 
shrine sent its glimmering message. Above the mys- 
tery of material nature—yea, out of matter’s very 
wreck and death—it surely hinted of infinite Life and 
Love. 

The incident came back to my mind as I sat down 
to write of Science and Poetry. I wonder if you will 
see in my Sicilian girl any similitude, however faint, of 
the poetic Muse, or be willing to concede to Poetry 
some spiritual use, such as I have tried to typify by 
the lamp in the lava? 


NIAGARA FALLS BY WINTER MOONLIGHT. 347 


NriaGAaRA Fatis By WINTER MOONLIGHT. 
From the Buffalo Courier, March 6, 1861. 


Nobody chooses the February moon to visit the 
Falls by; not one in five hundred, we are persuaded, 
knows anything about the apocalypse which is vouch- 
safed to him who, in these glorious winter nights, seeks 
the isle, not of Patmos, but of the Goat. 

At least, not a solitary foot but ours creaked in the 
crisp snow of the island, when we made the familiar 
tour a few midnights ago. What gloomy grandeur 
dwelt in that forest fastness, then! What savage 
music the wind made, moaning through the forsaken 
wood, and shaking the crystal castanets that dangled 
from the icy fingers of the trees! How the full moon 
seemed molten in its brightness, filling all heaven with 
radiance, and doing with the snow what Shakespeare 
said could never be done with the lily—that is, paint- 
ing it with a whiter whiteness. No toll to pay at the 
gateway; no importunate Jehu to cry, ‘Kerridge, sir?’ 
none of the thousand and one devices and traps to 
eatch your loose change; no peddlers and venders, 
runners and loafers, to wage war upon you, till you cry 
for quarter, and get it by paying quarters ;—nothing 
of all these—which are the summer complaint of vis- 


2348 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


itors at the Falls—is to be endured, now. Winter, 
with its whip of frost, has scourged the money-chang- 
ers from the place, and, in the temple of Nature, built 
around Nature’s grandest altar, there is loneliness and 
Sabbath quiet. 

You break the crust of the glittering, crisp snow, 
passing through the wood that bars the moon with its 
bare maple boughs, or hides it with masses of dark 
hemlock foliage, and, at last, you stop and listen. The 
everlasting song of Niagara rises in the night. It is 
high in mid-air when you hear it first,—a column of 
sound, as it were, stretching massive and unchangeable 
into heaven. But, standing at the brink, it is the 
depth of the din which strikes you. The thunder of 
the cataract seems to boom up out of the earth’s very 
center, as if from some tremendous, unfathomable foun- 
tain of sound. : 

The earth was quiet with snow, and the heaven was 
serene and bright with stars; and wilder, by contrast, 
in that dim, uncertain light, seemed to rage the battle 
of the waters. That is the first impression of the 
scene—a battle. Away in the dark are of the Horse- 
shoe is the center of the conflict ; above, is a Balaklava, 
across which there are wild charges and skirmishings 
and retreats;—and in every direction there is tumult 
and the mad zeal of battle. Up from this stormy 
chaos, and out of the bewilderment of soul and sense, 
rises at last the true conception of Niagara in its might 
and unity. One might think that Nature had ordained 
the cataract to be the perpetual embodiment of the 
spirit which dwelt of old in the continent, while it was 
yet undiscovered by civilization. The tide of progress 


NIAGARA FALLS BY WINTER MOONLIGHT. 349 


and human empire gradually oversweeps the land, from 
east to west, but Niagara still breasts the current and 
is untamed by it. The solitude of the primeval woods, 
the wilderness and the savage glory of nature, which 
have passed away elsewhere, still find a fitting voice 
and expression in Niagara. 

But the moonlight showed us, also, that there is a 
power which has the audacity to stand in warlike atti- 
tude, even against Niagara. It has built its great 
mounds of defense at the base of the cataract, and, 
night by night, has stretched white ramparts around 
the waters, and reared its gleaming towers, amid the 
very fury of the assaulting wave. The moon shone on 
the icy fortifications, and changed fantastic pinnacles 
and ridges and cornices of marvelous device to glit- 
tering silver, and the feats of oriental magic paled 
in glory before the work of the enchantment of the 
frost. 

There was another wonder. It was long before we 
discovered it,—the spectral child of Mist and Moon- 
light; but when we had watched and waited and 
almost despaired, suddenly the chasm beneath was 
spanned by the faery arch of the Lunar Bow. It held 
its perfect arc of lambent light between two rugged 
bergs that rose, like piers of the magic bridge, out of 
the darkness. So soft, so tender were its half-tinted 
hues, with such a wan, phantom-like beauty it hung 
above the war of waters, it was as if Love hovered 
over the couch of Madness. They do not yet know all 
about the cataract who have not seen this strange and 
gentle offspring of Niagara, bending over the foam and. 
radiant ‘ with moon-tints of purple and pearl.’ 


350 LECTURES AND MISCELLANY. 


THE GREAT STORM. 


From the Buffalo Courier, January, 1864. 


Our exchanges for the past few days have come 
to us crowded with freezing recitals relative to the 
great storm which officiated at the birth of the New 
Year. The cruelest convulsions of nature are more 
merciful than those which owe their origin to human 
sources, and thus the ravages of frost and tempest over 
half a continent will soon be forgotten in the raging of 
that more pitiless and protracted storm which sweeps 
the national heaven. Yet the war of the elements 
which has just ceased is certainly a phenomenon of 
more than ordinary character. We have not heard, 
as yet, from the terrific snow-hurricane while it was 
still in its boisterous infancy, but, days before it strode, 
colossal, into this longitude, we know that it was stalk- 
ing over the prairies, and gathering giant strength in 
its gymnastic exercises beyond the Mississippi. 

Nursed, probably, among the snows and cliffs of the 
Rocky Mountains, it started, about Wednesday of last 
week, eastward on its mysterious errand. Its path was 
at least five hundred miles—perhaps a thousand— 
wide, and Green Bay and Memphis simultaneously 





THE GREAT STORM. 351 


shivered under its icy breath. Eastward it came,—not 
so fast as might have been expected, but rather with a 
sort of stately deliberation, which beseemed its resist- 
less and imperial might. In its stormy march upon 
Buffalo, the telegraph was nearly two days its herald. 
Nor was the worst over when all shuddering humanity 
had recoiled before the furious assault of its vanguard. 
One, two, three days, and as many nights, came up 
the howling, shrieking, whirling, rushing and dashing 
reinforcements of the hurricane. And when one line 
of tempestuous battle had charged and broken itself 
on opposing matter, and had passed, not to the rear, 
but away, wildly again as ever, to the front, the next, 
bristling with bayonets of frost, and white with ban- . 
ners of snow, was already upon the swift heels of its 
predecessor. Thus, for three days, as we have said, 
passed the rushing, impetuous procession of the great 
storm, and in like manner it seems to have hurled 
itself still eastward, until its passion was cooled off, 
most likely, in the Atlantic. 

In sooth, the year has had a stormy birth. It came 
to us out of the very lap of the tempest. But, inas- 
much as soothsayers differ as to the interpretation of 
auguries, we choose to take for a good omen the storm 
which celebrated the entry upon the stage of time of 
the young year 1864. 





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